Tags: free speech


Donkey Truck

I am your god, but call me donkey truck.
I'll worship your poverty, and you can worship
my concern, 'cause we feel your pain,
like a Bangkok rent boy, we and all the
rent-seeking starfuckers who yellow sheets,
then wear themlike patrician robes,
re-classifying them as journalism and truth.

I am your god, but call me donkey truck.
Run after me, clamor for my stash of loot.
See if I stop before you stumble in worship.
I'll stick my head out the window, so I can
tell you who to blame for your empty lot.
I'll worship your degradation, and you'll worship
my promise of a golden goose in every pot,
and a non-stop/non-start urban green pan.

I am your god, but call me donkey truck.

I am your god, but call me donkey truck,

 Copyright © 2011 Bruce V. Bracken



If they had only spoken of you in holier tones, but there was no sanctity in their inflections,
no blank stares, no empty eyes.

I never thought I'd pull the trigger
on an old man, but when his knees would not bend, I had to bend them for him. Old men are stubborn,

but the flesh complies, the blood obeys.
The young, they are easier to deal with; take a child, make him close his eyes, fill his hands with sweets,

and tell him who gave so generously.
Pups are so eager to please their masters.
It was a hectic year, everyone was issued a torn

parachute, on purpose, and there was no time to
think, only time to jump out of the plummeting wreck
that Bautista had made of our ship of state.

You don't know how it disgusted me to see these bourgeois clutching at their now worthless notes and crosses, like a Negro clutching for a needle and opiates,

which is why I made sure to bind and gag them before I put bullets in their brains! It was quite a productive day at the prison!

If they had only spoken with the gratitude of a starving child, I would have retaught them everything, these bitter clingers, these banana farmers,

these tobacco farmers, thinking they could own
things, when they could only be owned, these rope makers, killing themselves with the butt of my gun!

Copyright 2011 Bruce V. Bracken

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.


Answering the Nov. 30/30 challenge

In answer to the November 30/30 challenge, my first poem of November:


It sputters a short-circuit breath,
like half-life phosphorous decay.
We lobotomized Edison.
We only call zombies righteous.

Like half-life phosphorous decay,
The zip-glamour of body bags.
We only call zombies righteous,
then cannibalize the bright-eyed.

The zip-glamour of body bags.
O, praise the Equalization!
We cannibalize the bright-eyed,
to command the red metal strings.

O, praise the Equalization,
for the mud you Impart to us.
We command the red metal strings,
to give us the social magic.

For the mud you impart to us,
we open our mouths, supplicant.
To give us the social magic,
we manufacture the dissent.

We open our mouths, supplicant,
for bread and cheese to fall into.
We manufacture the dissent
for dull peacocks with cracked lenses.

For bread and cheese to fall into,
we're left holding Hallowe'en bags.
For dull peacocks with cracked lenses,
our Alpha starlings preen and strut.

We're left holding Hallowe'en bags.
O, praise the Equalization!
Our Alpha starlings preen and strut!
Amazing Grease, for squeaking wheels!

Copyright 2010 Bruce V. Bracken

Posted via LiveJournal.app.