The Poetry Of D.O. from, Concerto for blunt instrument

Corporate corpses

autopsies performed in broad daylight
revealed the subjects to be
infested with bad ideas and a
certain degree of sociopathic
irresponsibility and traces of tea
of suspicious origin discovered
in it’s lack of stomach for
certain equities and evidence of
various substances associated with
hallucinations, illusions of grandeur
and a psychotic tendency to
loot and pillage every village
with keystrokes and bank notes
the coroner’s report was released
to a waiting public on the commons
where the bodies were discovered and
then covered discreetly with
transparent tarp so the hard rain
would not wash away the sins of the
rulers of the fucking universe.

all their charters have been withdrawn
with a patriotic song and a salute
to those who slept out in the rain
and endured all that pain associated
with a revocation in this nation
leaving countless followers & fools
stranded at the station, the train
having left for parts unknown
that could hardly be any worse than
that exclusion zone called home.
no more.



There are seven billion people
on Planet Earth today
none of them are corporations
all of them are animals
all of them must eat
corporations consume resources
animals eat food/breath air/
drink water/copulate/occupy space
all the other animals as well
all the same needs.
corporations are fabrications,
they are not animals, not at all,
they are dead, but not dead enough,
they are lifeless, yet they suck
the life out of everything
out of seven billion hosts
out of all the other animals
all the elements, all the needs
with fabricated paper teeth
metal claws and feet of clay
marching on the Earth today
which is already occupied, thank you.
this space is occupied, by life,
already far too occupied and
nearing the end of its’ rope
ready to use what’s at hand to
execute the lifeless corporations,
recycle the remains, and live on.


In The City of Homes

The City of Homes is a sea of tarps
blue as far as the eye can see
nothing much left above
ten feet, a hundred yard dash
through the heart
a trampled turnpike to the
next victims, eastward
striped and flattened trees
instant endless barrens beyond
the city of homes where
nothing’s for dinner, where
foreclosure takes a whole new meaning
where shattered glass soaked
beds provide no rest, where
damaged toys make no noise
sirens fill still air and flashing lights
consume the sleepless nights
here in the city of homes
a gyre once ground up sound
churning up the river and
everything else on its way
to a news item near you or
down south or in Missouri,
Japan, anywhere really and
more often than you’d think
the weatherman or woman would
care to mention that
science has established beyond
a reasonable doubt, reasonable
being the operative term, limits
being needed by the way, we
live reckless on the planet, in
this city of homes where a
flick of the switch no longer works
and the next special report
like yesterday’s headline is
just like tomorrow’s sad tale
in everyone’s city of homes.
– June, 2011
Springfield, Massachusetts


3 thoughts on “OCCUPOETRY”

  1. Friscobeat said:

    This is gritty, toothy, Habanero hot stuff. Perfect for the anger side of Occupy.

  2. Consider sending new poetry to OccuPoetry the journal

  3. Shavahn Best said:

    Keep on writing, all you Occupoets! Poetry is Political for the People who Need Peace and Justice!

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