Circus Without Bread

People filing in and rush to take their seats
New leather interiors strike fear that the past may repeat
Sadistic squeals of delight from incendiary elites
They smell the dung of the unwashed as they scorn the streets
Mass delete, eradicate the popular sense of the bold
Take a trip down history lane and see the tragedy unfold
The gladiator of the yellow media lifts a sword
When the truth gallops fiercely at the foe it abhors
Mouldy loaves rotting in the night of day
Hardened by the winds and societal decay
Mass heartache grinds the germ of truth and wheat
Beneath the teased treat of Machiavellian feet
Jewelled displays spray a cantankerous array
Of bling bling, brass rings and animal dismay
The lion screams at Zion to take the pain away
Can't depend that the fray will be tamed by blue berets
Like Rome, the new imperial master takes dissent and crushes
The last sense of decency and tosses it in the thrushes
Headlong into total dominance it madly rushes
Spilling brimstone and fire on every nation it touches
Plots war in the stars and grabs purpose with starry eyes
Spangled banners of red blood and bleached with blanched cries
Blue tears fill the oceans while its leaders fanaticise
On how to increase their release as the rest of the planet dies
A megaphone of ignorance and arrogance blasts
With bombast to mask the task of trashing the past
And reformulating past deeds in its own image
Starting painful reconstructions with no desire to finish
Burnt out buildings, dazed civilians strewn across the news
And it's their own people - giving reviews of dastardly previews
Intended to amuse a few of light-tainted hues
Abetted by darkies passing through catching a bit of the revue
Those at the tops of the mountains enjoying their vista views
Got more in common with each other than the people they abuse
Grabbing and clawing trying to reach the point of the summit
No space for them as boulders rain down, make the hoi-polloi plummet
Parades of swollen bellies, empty eyes, feeble laments
Of people scratching out a living on dirt-like cement
Trying to trade their meagre wares and yet still they're not paid
For all their blood, sweat and tears - their people still get flayed
The lash of leather turns cold in the green gleam of greed
Indeed the product of their labours exploits the seed
And leaves the people in need, shrivelling and dying like leaves
Tossed aside from the nurturing sustenance of grown trees
But now they advertise lies we despise yet we add to our collections
Of ready-made pre-fabricated widgets of perfections
Blotting out the destructive pervasiveness of consumerism presence
And when your brain obeys you lose something of your essence
And the ability to empathise and agitate for change
The world is rearranged with rage and soon things will get strange
Refrain from being entertained beneath the star-studded tent
Get active, learn the lessons of dissent and then repent
Because the circus without the bread lulls men into repose
And tries to train starving women to be critically comatose
As the three-ring will jingle with the high spring to swing
The trapeze to sling us until our final reckoning
The announcer shouts down from beneath the bright lights
Loud music, Big Brother, Powell, Rummy and Rice
And a burning Bush setting all goodness aflame
While putting tyrants and despots and dictators to shame
I mix the flour of hope with the water of pride
And the yeast to lift the spirits of the poor he derides
So once I'm through, bake with love that liberates the infirm
And eat the bread with my brethren and fiddle when Rome burns

It's So Real

make the fingers dance
like a virtuoso sashays across the glossed pine
bounce like balls of pointed feet slippered snugly
rising and falling to the shimmy and shake of
tympanic strikes on taut skins
roll out rhythm like gentle dunes to the horizon
float like the airy vocals of soulful harmony
heart squeezes out emotion onto the canvas
of tickled pleasure
purity of voice scribbles joy on my cerebrum
twitching muscular and shuddering breath
rolling eyes up into the recesses of memory
shut lids open up internal screens
play out the pull of recollection
my being vibrates to the progression
of chord strikes that play now and in the depth
of that place that has been awakened
i place my hands on my face
and fall deeper into the pool
safely inhale the warm blanket of
liquefied delectable life-giving sound
lay back and let it wash over me
as it carries me on the ripple
further into the bay of repose.

2:05 p.m.

tingles mingle under my lids
with melancholic frustration at the lack of your eyes
searching mine
life rolls on like a Chevy down
twinned paths of twin lanes
carrying you further away from me

i glimpse the clock
mocking me with the message:
2:05
small red dot to signify the passage of noon
when i knew you'd start rolling away
the art is unlocked now
held by years of stifling self-possession
constrained by the pain of extracting trace grams of life
from my semi-comatose consciousness

you hold the key
dangling from the enticing thread
that works to bind us together

what is the nature of the thread?
only time can tell the tale
is it horse hair? or string? or the finest gold?
what other secrets does time hold?

i scribble out my emotions on sad scrap of bleached pine
inculcated with blue and red lines
and wish i could have seen you one more time

but since i know you'll be back soon
i have something to look forward
to

i'm almost tapped out now and
still the sting remains
does it mean i dare to hope
in my subconscious mind
that you too may have had your mind on me

at 2:05 p.m.?

Ritallin the Cerebral Stimulant, a.k.a. Greg Frankson, is a 29-year-old spoken word artist in Ottawa, Canada's national capital. Although he has only been performing for less than a year, his poetry finds a receptive audience at various local poetry shows. Originally from Toronto, Greg began performing and writing as a hip-hop artist. He gradually transferred his love of wordplay and literary imagery to the poetic creativity of spoken word. Voicing his dissatisfaction with the growing negativity of hip-hop, as well as a deep concern around issues of oppression, exploitation and racism in society, Greg assumed the name Ritallin as a poetic metaphor - just like the drug, his poetry is designed to clear one's mind of clutter and permit the listener to focus on issues that matter. Using images laced with motion and emotion, Ritallin's work moves people to think, to empathize and to act.