And now a word from Adam Smith

Science is the great antidote to the poison of enthusiasm and superstition.
Adam Smith

I Live in Your Grave

Emptiness: a beginning and we are at war. That night we entered your womb; a deformed thing joined at the head: we would spit on you but you are dead and now I must drag your body; you are dead and I must sever your carcass from my skull.

Emptiness: an ending and I am your hostage; strapped to my seat, fearful, sweating, and terrified that I’m next.

Does this ecstasy of death include me?

I am death’s hostage; why does she ask me to join her when she cannot
say she wants me: when she will not give me the value of my life!

Who tallies the value of my life if not she?

Who is responsible for this relentless self-loathing?

You tell me I must love you as hatred seeps from your spirit into mine.

The pursuit of emptiness begins with the fabrication of a perfect lie,
honed to truth, and brutal in its deceptive honesty.

I must bear the humiliation of kneeling to beastliness.

Words and Text (c)Rob Goldstein 2017 All Rights Reserved
 

Save

I Am That Child

I am that child who watched in horror
as a policeman shot and killed my
Father.

I am that child gunned down
at school; my last words were,
Help me! I don’t want to be here!”

I am that child tortured and beaten
and left in a field to die because
I am gay.

I am that child who listens
fearfully as a rich white lady
on TV says that my life does
not matter.

I am every child who has ever gone to
bed hungry

And cold

And homeless

And illiterate

And sick

Because of the evil of adults who know what
they do.

And If I grow up I will shit on your streets

And feed your prisons

And live as evidence of your contempt for life

And the human spirit

And your bestial need for more.

I am the battered face of your hate.

Look at me!

 

Art by Rob Goldstein
I Am the Battered Face of Your Hate

 

Poem and Image (c) Rob Goldstein 2016

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Societies Ills

Splendid writing from Daisy in the Willows

Daisy in the Willows

Sitting with a cup in me hand,rattling my pennies. The wind cuts through my salvation army coat – I feel bare.

Half an hour until the big brother brigade does their rounds, to come  clear off the debris of me, offending society, with my appearance of failure. Glasses fixed on nose bridges to hide poverty’s despicable,  shining glare.

It wasn’t meant to get to this point. I had a home, a family. Believe me, I was a carer. That was many years ago.

I let my parents down. They was ill. They fought a lot. Dyspraxia and Alzheimers is a blinding, rallied up bull  shit way  to steer 30 years of love straight out the front door with a forceful blow.

Pa was getting violent he couldn’t help it – it was the  frustration. The illness works that way . Too much protein in the brain ,the doctor says.

I don’t care much for protein. I…

View original post 899 more words