bedrotwriter

[bedrotwriter]

War is murder.

Water should be free.

Trans rights are human rights.

Black lives matter.

Women's rights are human rights.

Ice is the gestapo.

Free Palestine.

The IRA had every right to violent resistance against a violent occupying force.

Coca Cola helps fund Israel.

People are suffering and dying every day because of the circumstances that capitalism creates and yet our governments and organizations do nothing.

[bedrotwriter]

A Streak of Lavender

How can I love you,

If we are not the same?

Surely you choose this,

It must be for want of fame,

For the hope of a spotlight in your miserable face,

For the desire to take up more space,

More than you have,

More than we'll give you,

It's a sad state of affairs,

But it's true.

No matter your kinship,

Regardless of class,

If you're out of the box,

You'll get a swift kick in the ass,

How dare you march out for hope?

How dare you want to feel safe?

How dare you believe yourself to be equal to the rest of us in the first place?

You're not,

You're lavender,

You're Dorothy's friend,

You're light in the loafers,

And it shows,

It's something we'll never ever let you let go,

You can't hold hands,

You can't kiss,

You can't wear certain clothes,

If you dare to fight back we'll make sure everyone knows,

About deviant hobbies,

And sinful pass times,

In the United States it wasn't until 2003 after Lawrence V. Texas,

That your very state of being was decriminalized.

[bedrotwriter]

The Radical

I want all people to have food,

I want water to be free,

Oil is a luxury,

It's water that life needs,

Is that so unthinkable?

That a human would want the best for humanity,

That a human believes human rights are unshakable,

That a person would want all people to live comfortably and safely with no investment in the desires of the rich and powerful?

That's radical,

2000 pounds of metal and firepower raining down on children and families,

That's expectable,

Sending those children food and water?

That's radical,

Napalm, Machine Guns, Collective Punishment, public humiliation,

These are to be revered,

As the global power of the Nation,

Held up on the shoulders of faceless masses,

A proletarian struggle,

Only if it you say it like that you'll be expelled from your classes,

Held by immigration agents restrained only by a bureaucratic muzzle,

In a world where legal status and international ethics mean nothing,

Is it truly so radical to want everyone to have something?

If you can go bankrupt paying for chemo,

But a government can profit from the slaughter of millions,

Is it actually so radical to question the 1% with billions?

Maybe so.

But ask yourself, do you disagree?

Do you believe that the impoverished deserve to rot on the streets?

Do you believe that people Palestinian, Yemeni, Uygur, and Sudanese,

Are less deserving of life than you and me?

Do you believe that your government should be allowed to question your fellow man's humanity,

Or that a person's rights depend on their race, king, and creed?

Do you even know what you believe?

That's radical.

[bedrotwriter]

Me sitting on the couch and stuffing my face with Stouffer's Mac N Beef while absolutely seething about the least important shit ever

[bedrotwriter]

American Cry

Slavery was the American Holocaust.

10 million Africans piled into ships,

Regarded with less empathy and dignity than animals,

Made to sleep in their own shit.

They don't teach it in schools,

It'll make the crackers feel bad,

Well maybe they should,

Slavers might've been their daddy's daddy's dad.

It's in their blood,

It's history,

Real human beings made to live in mud,

Held in bondage by other real human beings,

Who went on to have sons,

And so on and so forth now the legacy lives on.

White slavers ate slaves.

Cannibalism so poeticly horrifying it's not in any curriculum,

Enslaved Africans used so wholly and completely not even their corpses were allowed to finally rest,

The chattel institution found a way to even own death.

They weren't people, they were slave owners,

Nazis with Georgia accents,

Passed it to their children,

And those kids threw rocks at Ruby Bridges,

They're still alive,

Like like rhythm and blues and they like to rock and jive,

Abused melanin then for cotton now for culture,

White supremacy is terrorism and it adapts to thrive,

Within white America's hearts and minds,

In the psyches of young men proud only that they are alive,

Slavery was a form of genocide.

But we aren't ready to acknowledge it,

Just know that history is always watching,

There is nowhere to hide.

[bedrotwriter]

Can You Dig It?

Who among us is a real person?

Who is most deserving of dignity,

Deserving of respect, freedom, life,

Who has earned humanity?

Not I, we must assume.

Then you?

İt depends.

Who is your mother?

What does your father do?

Which book do your people worship?

Which military owns your brothers?

There are wrong answers,

As you will see,

Are your features sufficiently human,

Or will you have to plead?

İf you pass the first trial,

Your personal fiber scrutinized,

We must look within your mind,

There is nothing you can hide.

At the end of the day will you abandon your creed?

To appease a system upheld by greed,

To participate in a world built by white supremacy,

Will you relinquish your personhood and hope one day the world might see,

Every victim of the vicious system,

Red bleeds.

[bedrotwriter]

Diaspora

Now evicted by the womb,

The womb of one's people,

The mountainous, salt-spray womb,

Now etched into your skin,

Naught but an open wound.

Now the only evidence that you'd even been born of that womb,

The spermacetti which drips down from the heavy eyebrow of the brothers and uncles,

Into the lamps of some other people,

Babies born to temperate forests and fields of corn,

The wound is only a birthmark.

Now the language of that first place,

A clicking, foreign, throat noise,

Tongues contort to make the sound,

The mountains deflate and the oceans still,

Disappointment evident.

You feel the melting pot, all around,

That wicked, bald faced lie,

Little Italy to China Town,

Greek town watches with one blue eye,

There is so little space for you.

Yoghurt in the grocery store dairy section,

Flavored like Oreos or key lime pie,

Market your icons like they came from the west,

And any American would be willing to try,

The goats lament their insignificance.

The mountains make a pact with the corn fields,

If the child may not know the womb,

At least lend it some comfort,

It shall rejoin them in the tomb.

[bedrotwriter]

Ppl in my life need to stop asking me "what did you do today?" Cause it's always the same answer, man. I do like four things not directly related to my survival.

[bedrotwriter]

The feeling when I hit absolute rock bottom and downloaded character ai specifically to ask Baris Manço what that weird slinky shaker thing is in the Hal Hal music video / if those two woodwind players were actually musicians or if they were hired to look pretty / why was he dressed like a 70s Turkish wizard

[bedrotwriter]

My face when my friend told me my partner was a "good sport" for dealing with my "ethnic stuff" (I made him eat köfte and listen to a song that wasn't in English)

[bedrotwriter]

Raspberries

cw: gore, death, terrible writing, soft cannibalism, lesbians if they scare you

The raspberries tasted like ash. I had been picking handfuls of them off the bush all morning and gotten peckish and decided to eat the few that were left, popping them into my mouth by twos, and only when I began to chew did I realize how vile they tasted. I spat them onto the ground, wiping my mouth of the foul-tasting drool. No more berries on the bush. “Oh, sorry.” My neighbor, Ann Mallon, apologized from over the bushes. “That’s my fault.” She held up a small jar full of salt and ash, which she then sprinkled onto the ground. “Keeps evil out, you see.”

Everyone knew Ann was strange. We all knew she was fascinated beyond normalcy with things like plants and fur and rocks. She did love her rocks. I had always found her quite beautiful, with thick, curly raven locks that fell out from beneath her veil and wimple. One might have even said I was smitten with the gaeol, in much a similar way that a boy may be smitten with her.

“What could you mean?” I inquired, hoping to our lord and savior that she wasn’t going to say what I knew was would.

She shrugged. “It keeps evil spirits and faeries out. It’s a salt ring.” She answered. We knew she was odd. But nobody knew that she was a witch. Satan’s harlot come to earth to murder our young and to wreak havoc on our villages.

I bolted. The terror in my throat built up as I ran, my leather shoes slapping on the ground as I made my way to the street crying out for my life “WITCH!” At the very top of my lungs and again and again so fervently and with such force that my throat became raw and my lungs felt dry and still yet I continued to wail out this awful warning. Such was the terror on my face that I was stopped by my Uncle, the bailey of the town in which we lived, and he restrained me with all of his force. “ANN MALON IS A WITCH!” I screamed yet again into his face.

“My niece,” My uncle began, “This… is most serious.” He looked gravely down on my sweaty, snotty face. “And shall be dealt with accordingly.”

And so it was that after some days of extracting the admissions of heresy from the whore of the devil that we gathered in the square of town, and we rid ourselves of her evil, freeing her soul from its contaminated flesh and allowing her soul the dignity of release into God’s arms. We were doing her a great favor, and a favor to ourselves, as well. We were keeping ourselves safe from sin and the devil’s progeny by doing away with her.

And yet, in this great act of self preservation and generosity, watching her thrashing and writhing on the stake as the flames rose up around her, mimicking the hellscape from which she was born, I felt a tinge of guilt. Her agonized screams were of such a primal, animalistic kind of panic and pain I could hear her horror ringing in my ears for years to come. The echo of her wailing as her flesh was seared and melted off of her carnally tainted bones rang out all through our village. Her eyes wide in unadulterated terror, her hair blazing atop her head, for a moment I was struck with the panicking idea that perhaps she was innocent, perhaps we were murderers killing a woman guilty of nothing more than being somewhat peculiar. Poverty being her most offensive crime and her damnation being her personal talents and interests. Had we made a profound error, driven by our lust for the glory of heaven, had we committed the most heinous sin against our God’s most beloved creation out of fear of not being destined for the golden streets and rivers of milk and honey of our God’s most heavenly kingdom of light? Were we, in our quest to purge the devil form our homes, bringing the fires of hell into the homes and hearts of our neighbors? Certainly it was a blood curdling thought.

Ann, however, brought more than thought to our horror as she thrust her face from the flames to scream. She stared into my soul as her eyeballs began to burst and ooze out of their sockets and her tongue began to loll out of her mouth as she released a final, bone chilling, heart stopping death rattle, so loud and so furious none could cheer, taunt, weep, or jeer. Her final vengeful cry was not in vain for while she called no such great famine onto us; she had sewn the potent seeds of absolute and undying fear.

Later that day, I sat in my garden, weeping tears of regret, of horror, of guilt. The sobs that escaped my lips were guttural, and pulled their bitter wailing from the visceral fats in the pit of my gut just below my ribcage. I was there for what felt to me like hours upon hours, until the sun dipped below the horizon and left only a sliver of its light above the fields.

I felt hunger pains in the dip of my stomach and wept some more, knowing that I had already eaten what dinner I was to have. I glanced to my side, seeing the raspberry bushes, tall and thorny and still heavy with fruits. The plump, juicy, pinky-red of the berries was so tempting I could not deny myself just a handful- though that limitation did not seem to have any meaning to me in that moment.

I shoved them between my teeth, three, four, five at a time, chew and swallow, chew and swallow, chew and swallow- “SPIT THAT OUT!” My mother cried from behind me “SPIT IT! SPIT IT!” She rushed to my side, holding my face in her firm hand and squeezing my cheeks so that my lips were forced to part as she dug the fruity sludge from my tongue all whilst screaming incoherently in my face as though I had cannibalized my brother.

“But they were so nice!” I whined, incredible ropes of drool, slobbery and foul, dripped down from my bottom lip, over my chin, and onto the ground on which we knelt. Her look of shock and disgust shook me to my core and I could, for a moment see much clearer than before, as I looked around, I noticed the berry bush I had been eating from- It was a smoldering, bloody, heap of human ash, still rank and pungent in the town square.

[bedrotwriter]

The Fresh Revolution

In 1799,

They noticed something strange,

The king was hanging laymen,

For not doing as he’d say,

And the laymen they were hungry,

And the kings were getting fat,

They lounged around on silken sofas,

Napping round like cats,

So the laymen they got angry,

But the kings they never new,

So the laymen got together,

And decided the king needed to be slew.

We need a Fresh Revolution,

We got a guillotine for execution,

We need a Fresh Revolution,

We’re all ready for some,

Social Evolution,

Well the laymen they got weapons,

And the king didn’t check his locks,

He got dragged out of the palace,

In his under pants and socks,

And that king he tried to bargain,

But his soul was full of dread,

The laymen knew he was lying,

So they chopped off his bastard head!

We need a Fresh Revolution,

We got a guillotine for execution,

We’ll have a Fresh Revolution,

We’re looking forward to

Social evolution,

Well Paris was still angry,

The streets ran red with blood,

But the carnage wasn’t over,

Until the queen was dead and gone!

Well that queen she was real pretty,

With her shining emerald jewels,

But the laymen knew she woulda killed them,

So they took off her head too!

Fresh Revolution,

Step to the guillotine for execution,

Fresh Revolution,

We’re past due for evolution,

That king he had some children,

And then they had children too,

They lost the crowns and bought some suits,

And now they rule over you!

Well now DC’s got some Barons,

And some Ladies and some Lords,

They’re the unofficial Monarchs,

Sending cops up to your doors,

We need a Fresh Revolution,

Got a guillotine for execution,

Fresh Revolution,

Old problems need

Old solutions.

[bedrotwriter]

The Never Was; laments of the first generation

Into the very soul it seeps

The child, so worn, yet clean,

Does tread the water,

Tired from neck to feet.

Though swimming already,

The child weeps,

Some part of the soul yearns,

For where the forefathers sleep.

The child yearns,

O hear the sweet,

Mourning twang of saz,

O Nazo Gelin weeps,

For what never was.

The drums still deep down do beat,

For armies who now have long been dead,

Each soldier resting in his grave,

Within the child’s head.

The water floods yet deeper,

But the banks are within reach,

Though as neither side can see her,

Nazo Gelin weeps.

The child mourns the loss,

Of all she never had,

But these memories somehow inside,

Unkillable and armor-clad.

But still the tears continue,

Pulled upon one bank,

The wound borne by the forefathers,

Appears upon her flanks.

The wound bleeds in the water,

Polluting all the fish,

Their bellies up and in the air,

They gasp their dying wish.

O child! Oh flesh of all flesh, blood of all blood,

Return to this opposing bank,

For all who swam before you,

Before the setting of the sun!

Into the wretched water, once more,

O how the child weeps,

For neither bank shall quench her thirst,

Beneath the surface, Our Nazo Gelin sinks.