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 Post subject: Poetry by Members
PostPosted: Sun Feb 21, 2016 7:46 am 
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A compilation of some poetry by members, possibly posted on RedMarx. The occasional 'lyrics' may also be included. This should give some form of impression of RM and its members' artistic proclivities, at least back in the day. Some of these may be more recent, and as we know Creep never changes. I mean, in any fundamental sense. I'm not Jared James Abrahams. Creep might be Jared James Abrahams. Creep is almost certainly Cassidy Wolf.

Zanthorus (Tanz):

Sonnet (2012)

Some time ago I succumbed to the trend,
I joined with facebook. Why? I can't quite say,
It promised to me connection with many a friend,
Among it's colours a lighter shade of grey,
This last indeed should rightly have made me wary,
Of void of content which I might find inside,
Instead my impulse counselled me to bury,
My better reason which my passions made hide,
And now I find myself trapped in the decline,
Of civilisation and it's linguistic fruits,
By odious imposition of the timeline,
Compelled by money-changers wearing suits,
Too late it is that I now realise,
We should have stuck with smoke-signals in the skies,

Ah, but could Marx write lyrics as good as these (2012)

I love you dear with all of my heart,
It's thanks to your kind that I'll never part,
With my vaguely worded record contract,
As long as you're here I'll keep the pact,
I'm saying this just not just to sell records,
It's because I don't think I'll ever be through,
With milking my image,

ZeroNowhere (V.):

Posted on RM:

fukc inwo w man: the love song of j. alfred zanthorus (a found poem, based on drunk posts by one Zanthorus.) (2012)

common man it's party time wooooooooooooo.

i was likea th thies girls party
it was like fuckin wosw likel
livin communism;
the beers
th morning.

fuckin wow mab.

womens are awesome
fukc inwo w man
ad i#ve evr been...
nd aexpriopritate
bourgeoisie fuckers
cusz al the cool guys says...

and i don't even know you -
hoawe did you -
ger heter, wo w man?

fukcing alk to me man
ipm feeling fucking social as ****
fukcing alk to me;

before ig tet sober abnd lame
get drunk with me
and well
jam and bein croatio wor wehever.

you should come to england
i'd be like
what We watch in reverence, as Narcissus is turned to a flower. A flower? bro.
you should ome crash on my couch
and well
jam like ***; jam. partay.
i don'te even give a shi.

c'mon it's party time wooooooooooooo.

Pastoral (2013)

Hello, this is a dispatch
From the Kingdom of Birds:

Greetings, sir or madam,
I am the King of Birds,

And I am here to inform you
Of your punishments or rewards.

Although you may not know us,
Our eyes are everywhere;

And, after some scrying,
We have found where your children

Go to school, and have turned them
And their teachers to crows.

We clucked hard at this one.
However, that was just tangential.

Now: turning to you,
You shall soon find your television

Increasingly featuring birds,
As we tune you to our channels;

Outside, sparrows will hiss,
And pigeons will moan

In voice ominous. Yet, you shall be safe,
Until we set fire to your nest,

With flames born of bird magic;
Escaping, you shall see

The sky turning red,
And an Apocalyptic Bird,

Towering high in the distance,
With black, massive feathers

Shadowing your frightened face.
You shall tell the laughing sparrows

Of all the times that you fed them;
But they are all in our power,

And shall not listen.
Then, you shall run,

As the sound of feet gets louder;
And the birds, too, will attack you,

For crime is no mere laughing matter;
In fear, you shall be trapped in our world forever.

This has been a dispatch
From the Kingdom of Birds.

A Stalinist Apologia (2012)
by J. Arch Donne.

Mankind has many strange urges
Whose products are the endless dirges
That we sing, each time a new corpse merges
With the endless stream of death.

Yet from these ashes, there emerges,
As a phoenix, man from the drudges
Of material life; free from the surges
Of emotion that break his mind in lurches.

He may see now pure truth; he merges
With the eternal in these graveyard churches;
Free from the impure, Reason surges
To elevate his heart's poetic urges;
And culture thus emerges
As soon as man starts using Purges. [1]

Not on RM:

Regent's Park

The white lights of the eve
were quiet, like the waiting
of shadows about to be cast
over the waiting city below.

The wailing siren told of
an alliance that no man should know,
but no more than this disturbed
the scuttling streets and blank tyres.

They were on their way back again
to where they were before, except
now excited as mice were in waiting
for another step to monitor them,

and for gold chains left in plain sight,
as if nobody was looking, as if they couldn't see how.

Sonnet (2012, moments before Zanthorus'. The oldest by far of this section.)

When once I registered on Facebook,
I never meant to join their sickly crew,
And be assimilated, sucked into the nooks
And crannies of their press and screws
Of words, and likes, and friend requests,
And lies, worthless lies - I never meant
To slay my own soul at their tongues' bequest,
Yet it was so done - and so my heart was rent
And it was all - now, nothing but quietness
Haunts my fading sleep, and reason's sleep,
And the failure to speek... And nothing less
Than the deepest fountains of wisdom's deep
May cure dis pntless, wrdlss emptiness,
Which drowns my soul, in every refreshed lee.


The way they told her where to go
and who to trust, and whom not to,
were all lies, for all knew where to go
to find where the games found their point,
and it was just where gold was kept,
but unhappily, as if it had to be sent away
because it was not enough for contentment.

Yet she was content enough in this
gallery where she was kept for sale,
and felt alright, so nobody thought
to take issue with it. Until she married.

Then, after some irrational haggling,
she was put down in bed for what little niche
in capital she could get, and this capitalised
through her bereavement. Did she escape? We shall more.

Amaryllis Noctis

Peculiar shades of silver
decorated their golden tresses,
and these were those of coins
which were made to settle for lesser place.

Yet were the poets so firm?
Or was she rather melted into
a grass of common earth to show
the other poets what to write
and how the people wrote?

The monarch was not in poetry,
and, if a poet, could say so.
Yet poetry as an institution
belonging to the nation
was a transformation of its own
discussion. Restriction only loved the church.

A dilemma (2013)

Venice was silent,
and Auckland was too,
for there were no
flightless birds in Peru.

‘Alas,’ said the Auckland,
‘What more shall we do?’
for there were no flightless
birds in Peru.

‘Tell you what,’ said the Venice,
‘We’ll cut it in two,
and then there’ll be birds
who got split too,

‘And so there’ll be flightless
birds in Peru.’
Yet, in the meantime,
a tremor had come,

For someone had taken
the birds from Auckland,
and then dressed them up
in a communized way:

and so made it clear
that, whatever you do,
if you have flightless birds
they’ll be stolen from you,

and so they gave up on
flightless birds in Peru.


You can be banned for multiple reasons,
or for no reasons, like Michael Jackson,
but in any case the generic action is
merely searching for a reason, once done,
and this is all that must then be done.
Did you rhyme a word with itself? Use
a Mary Sue, now a controversy? Were you
a creep to a relativist, who could not
object? Whatever you were, these crimes show
the corruption that the church is zealous
about, and indeed what sin does the church
not encourage that welcomes the Catholic laity?
People keep giving Amesoeurs a meaning. In lieu
of politics, recourse was made to positivism. And such.

Smooth Church Pika

Pencil in outlines
of what some called a person,
and some a God, and you'll
find that their Heaven is yours,
and you have not set them free
to be where they may please.
Yet enough, for if they are
extracted into something abstract,
then they were merely pitied
by all church-goers, perhaps
told to amend their ways by
counsel, of some form. But the
church did not think abstractly.
Every Christian, but not Christ, moved contentedly.


The Hell Song (2012, untitled)

they see me purgin'
they hatin'
patrolling they tryin to catch me purgin' dirty
catch me purgin dirty
catch me purgin dirty
catch me purgin dirty
swag ya'll


Broletariat (Dan):

Trotsky Swift (2012)

I remember when we split for the first time
Saying this is it, I've had enough, 'cause like
You haven't sold a paper in a month
When you, said you, needed personal time, what?
Then you come around again and say
Trots, I miss you and I swear I oppose Capitalism
Remember you wouldn't even sell papers?
I say, you reactionary, we split, you call me, **** you

OOOOOOOOH We split our group again last night
OOOOOOOOH This time I'm telling you I'm telling you
We are leading leading leading the working class revoltx2
You go talk to your splits talk to my splits talk to me
But we are leading leading leading leading the working class revolt


Huh, he calls me up and he's like, I still oppose capitalism
And I'm like, you don't even sell papers, how can the proletariat revolt without class consciousness
We are never getting back together, like ever

[There isn't even a full-stop. That is just how long they are not getting back together.]

Savage (Fel.):

The planned artistic contributions of Savage

Just wait for my Onorato Damen: The Musical.

"incredible amounts of muslim immigrants to europe" (or, How this contribution to art may have turned out) (2012)

I would check your sources on stuff like this.
Also I'm not sure how much point there is
in determing which religions
are 'more reactionary' or 'less reactionary'
than others;

all religions of significance have and will
continue to be used alongside the
ideological cloaking of repressive state acts when necessary.

But if Shayne wrote it (2013)

Now we’re not blaming you lot for this mishap,
but we’d appreciate your cooperation in
fixing the damage that you may have inadvertently caused. We Sawmen
are not usually a warlike people,
but when especially ticked off
we can be driven to dangerous methods.
Our drafted solutions to this pickle are as follows:

1: Change your forum’s name to something
else. We’ve already tried on our end by using
Max’s wife Egels’ name instead, but it hasn’t
really helped.


In the meantime, you can at least take
the simply measure of installing a SawBasedSubForum to
help stranded RedMaxers navigate their way back home.
Then Shayne had to live in a place named Australia,
where a lot of Japanese people are.
They might have run for President, but then
they would have had to be shot for the good of RedMarx.

Possible things to follow include a poem dedicated to the notable members of RM.

"The thing [calculus] has taken such a hold of me that it not only goes round my head all day, but last week in a dream I gave a chap my shirt-buttons to differentiate, and he ran off with them."

- Friedrich Engels.

Vocatus atque non vocatus Deus aderit.

2x Security Reasons. DANGER DANGER.

Was an Admin when RM was important. Was since confused with Negative Creep for being active.

 Post subject: Re: Poetry by Members
PostPosted: Sun Feb 21, 2016 10:11 am 
User avatar

Joined: Fri Jun 03, 2011 2:17 am
Posts: 883
Has thanked: 726 time
Have thanks: 844 time
Anywhere, here's a long poem by me, commemorating some of the notable, especially the poetically inclined, members of this forum. It seemed right that we should exploit the form of poetry itself, and the poetic tradition, in order to praise such luminaries. I quite like the section on Creep. Anyway, here y'all go.

Alternative Scene

0. Intro

The way the stars were,
and the palm trees alongside their vision,
was almost
a song above
the loud blare of a wordless noise
repeating itself.

As the long day went on
a word appeared in the clouds,
and it said,
the plait of flat lights in the sky
was an illumination,
a painting.

The people did not stir,
but kept hopefully to their canvass,
hoping wildly that it might
be something else entirely –
with a glitter that they ignored
and shunned.

They liked loudness, but not the silence
in which you may observe the glimmer
of a hopeful stone.
The relic of a wild
evening ploughed through the verses
that kept to instruments, that
they might not say anything untoward.
And this was the place they wrote.

A quaint evening’s chorus
was made of plain choirboys
with nothing to say, and too many
ways to say it. They were lying.

But so it was, for they praised God,
but only looked to the crowd.
One might think them deceptive.
The exultantly ordinary laity never would.

Some people would be bored when you first
decried Valentine’s Day.

Yet, the stars
blazed on with a clear hope, if you looked:
“Dust is to ashes as ashes are not to dust,
and so actual energy may not freely transmute, as
only money, the form of value, falsely may,” albeit
perhaps without the useful digression, and perhaps
singing ‘Torture me’ by the Red Hot Chilli Peppers as they
walked down a street staring apart, and hoping to be seen.

The ground dragged on to the same reason, while
the stars had a music of their own,
quite different from that of others,
but it was no classical music,
it was real.
The light of
Valentine’s Day moons is like a strange ode,
where the day goes on indefinitely
after the clock strikes, for the night is
all its denizens care for. As if to say,

“Is it the moon too constant, or the lake
too fickle? The palest shade of night
shall not shine tonight.”
And so it never did.
There was no night.
It was a forgery.
And there were no stars, either, not
even of the vulgar, economic kind.
The only truth was in the music
that stared at them as out of a window,
as their seriously taken jokes got out of hand
and determined ends and hopes within
their coterie community. But not all cared
that they were happy so. Soon they would not be.
But in capital, ordinarily, people moved closer
to capital, and thus attained some success,
and anything else was alternative, detached and rude.

The way past the open gazes
led to a secluded lilt of leaves and sky,
almost transmuted
seen at night.
We may hold the world to account if they did not listen.
In a decentred system, no-one else could ever be law.
But perhaps the rain sings puddles.

I. Zanthorus

Sing songs on a tired carcass
made from the flesh of birds!
In the burning rot we find
a place not far from home.

Swindon may be rent, in twain as it
may be, but let it pass us external.
It is not as exciting as it is said.
It was not as normal a ruckus as it was sad.

In small differences they’ll find,
they do not wish to be alone,
they wish to satisfy every whim,
they just wanted to let go.

This was not a pure location —
and its purpose was pleasure,
no pleasure too much,
no pleasure between people excluded,

and out of this compound a hellhole.
There was just one thing they sought,
and alcohol could render that as much.
It was not to spend nights reading Marx.

Yet let London be stained with
the sound of music
too passive, by far, among those watching
briefly wordless – as if

they might enjoy this. But were they really
to be so? Then they would not enter.
The composer is quiet, the audience
is quiet, and with no more they would be called freaks.

But perhaps the musicians, directed by
whoever directs their coterie,
would be married off by the end. You don’t
want to be so micro-managed, as it were,

by those allied to capital. Hence why
people may have hid down mines.
The more everyday sounds
are the relentless sounds outside that
you did something wrong, and the
realisation some musician
did something unspecified right. Or, were moving.
But if this were to stand out, then the base
must be of something disapproved
of, hence motion. And hence why, in their
hopefully abnormal ramblings
there is a touch of enjoyment.
It is like the sound of banging
asylum doors in a hostile world,
unhappily plaguing London halls;
but as Messiaen may predict
this imprisonment was brief.

But then Bach
wrote a Fugue, but nothing to match
a word of Socrates. Multiple threads
Split onwards like hairs to no clear destination.
may have disliked Salieri,
or may not have,
but it needn’t matter
it’s just an excuse for associating
his music with frivoliry, gaiety
and indiscriminate enjoyment,
which is why it is disliked.
This buttresses the classical form, or at least its silent image,
at the expense of only the others
being taken seriously. So
why Mozart may hate Salieri.
The blurred meaning of Bach may drag any music down.

Still, it’s all the same if nobody’s listening,
or if nobody’s listening who cares. People may
pretend that was the same. Quiet oaks
of a Swindonian garden might render
in opal when in high-definition, but
the sky still reflects itself in a distant pond.
The sun is a blurred eye.
It is silent. It is like Swindon is a factory,
and classical music is when it stops, and work begins.

II. S. Artesian

The haughty declamations have eyes
that may be torn down like the wolves
they pretended to be, knowing
exactly where they were, when
they scorned any who tried to understand
the things that surrounded us. But it is over.
The waiting spectre of communism lurked
blackly gazing through the night,
and did not have to wait before seeing prey.

The scarlet pigeons left on the doormat
were mostly disregarded, or ignored, or proclaimed
a mere isolated voice, when it could not be
understood what it was saying, or what
others might say to agree. Society just knew one word.

(And it was not Christ.)

III. Creep.

Wait! Is there a sweeter slumber in the dark,
or in the light of thine eyes? God, tell me,
I need to know. Somebody told me. If I were
more perjured I should cry, ‘Calumny!’ and
no doubt the world would approve. What, then,
should leave your creep so isolated and serious?

For Hoxha is oft hated, I have seen in most encounters,
I have had with those who were not creeps,
And if I were to breathe with a breath
that restructured Moses’ laws, would I not
then be called rogue? Aye, this occupies me.
But what else occupies me? Well, the Admins and God.

If this place were to be as red
as to smite all social relations, why is it so
often antagonistic to any indignation, or to
being seen opposing anything? When people
decried the disparagement of Revleft, then truly
could I say, “I am the table.” In feminism, I am the aggressor.

But am I not the victim of a label? Fie, fie,
as Shakespeare may have said, indicating feminism,
it is victim blaming, to hold against me
the **** culture of an age, which admittedly
might just be me. But if a creep likes a forum,
no doubt its ‘friends’ must separate it from the creep.

The rhythms are false, for in light we are
and may play with light. But shall I
give my opinion on light, or would this not
rather alter the nature of patriarchal religions
that you have held to? I speak of Creep in first-person
because they are always, at least, an illeism.

Some weird person comes up to you with paper
asking seriously, ‘Well, what is your
favourite colour? Your favourite friend? Your
favourite pastime, other than being here?’
I would rather say, ‘This is Creep on Joy,’
than assume that such knew about anything.

Some things I do, some ‘Brock’ does well. Sometimes
these imitators make you wonder if, perhaps,
an Onix could learn Rage, to smite these foes,
and decry their vulgar wankery. I am the progress.
Let not your diagrams be left uncared for.
We were and are all crazy here, world without end.

Though it is not a fashion. Some say it is
a fashion to sigh, but it is rather plain.
One must rather detach, and be another thing,
and then not sigh for what is left behind. But
to enjoy it is another thing. Where is the love
to shelter creeps? Substance was something
never seen, instinct worshipped. So, you see,
Brunei was a function of Tokyo, and
Vietnam was supposed to be Singapore,
while Lisbon tried to be Hong Kong, and
still nowhere cared about Essex. A narrow path
would not have looked good on a priest’s
credit card. If drugs are a function of peer pressure,
then people liked them in saying so. If they claimed

they were not, perhaps they were on drugs. Brooding,
half-realised shapes were strewn on the walls
of the no-doubt asylum where a creep grows up,
with some ‘jock’ walking around saying, ‘What’s up, punk?’
They didn’t get it. For their part, Negative Creep’s still not getting any,
so perhaps they can fit in. But do not
most ‘jocks’ and Biebers resemble Creep’s detractors?

It is a mere trifle. Indeed, a Creep must have done
with such figures as Zayn Malik, who think
that pillow-talk is like a song, and instead delve
to deeper realms of historical materialism. Only
consider Zayn Malik songs like a flea. Their girlfriend
claims to have lost their virginity. I don’t consider it worth it.
But trysts are made on a whim, and value. To be a creep is to be revolutionary.

IV. ZeroNowhere.

Five years of Ellie Goulding planted
the seeds for Sia, and by that point
people may well have clamoured for
more information on reds and 1984,
instead they got a Taylor Swift record,
which might well not tell them anything,
so you might wonder what they’re doing there.
That’s where we come in. We’re better.
Now that you are a communist, you may read Marx
with some validity. Or immigrate, like
Selena Gomez. Even become a *******,
but then you’d have to date Sarah Roemer,
which is ew. But, in brief, you should read Marx,
it shall help you in all things but cheerleading.

V. Savage.

The promises of
yesterday are like a glassed-off
garden’s grey shadow.

If you wish, you may
never be seen again, but shush
before you’re tortured.

It is a brief note
that the day is wan or in spring,
but a quiet gaze.

"The thing [calculus] has taken such a hold of me that it not only goes round my head all day, but last week in a dream I gave a chap my shirt-buttons to differentiate, and he ran off with them."

- Friedrich Engels.

Vocatus atque non vocatus Deus aderit.

2x Security Reasons. DANGER DANGER.

Was an Admin when RM was important. Was since confused with Negative Creep for being active.

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