Author: B. K. Neifert

Mark 13:51Jesus saith unto them, Have ye understood all these things? They say unto him, Yea, Lord. 52Then said he unto them, Therefore every scribe which is instructed unto the kingdom of heaven is like unto a man that is an householder, which bringeth forth out of his treasure things new and old.

Amendment XXVIII; as a Note, This Is not Law, but You Would Want it To Be.

Article 1: No test shall be administered in due process or in an investigation that is based on subliminal interpretations. Citizens have a right to a fair investigation that does not interpret subliminal actions which are out of a Citizen’s control, due to the possibility of false representations of such actions by authorities or court officials.

Article 2: The rights of an offender are to have public records expunged—in a compulsory act of the courts, by the courts at no fee for the defendant—the moment their punishment is over; and no public record of such criminal offenses are allowed to be kept by private or public officials or individuals, except as a matter of court records, and only for Aye or Nay that such a proceeding had happened, without injury or bias toward the defendant of a criminal justice proceeding.

Article 3: No crime is to have statutory conditions; all crimes must be arbitrated by the courts, and all penalties and duties must be arbitrated by the courts prior to sentencing.

Article 4: Police, prosecutors and investigators, as a matter of jurisprudence, cannot have access or possess records of criminality, due to the inherent bias against individuals who would hold such records. Criminal records, also, are not admissible as evidence in a court of law.

 

 

 

 

Guinevere

I am angry with you

For what you didn’t do.

Left me, and did not come to me.

Why oh why did this mistress haunt?

Why did you flaunt?

Why did you show yourself

Just to disappear?

 

Around in circles we go

With no song able to inspire the insipid feeling

The one I have toward you.

It is not hate.

Rather, Guinevere,

You have made me lose faith in love.

 

Where were you when I needed you?

Where were you when I asked for you?

Hidden in the parcels of shadows

Like the very spectre I said I didn’t want.

 

You are more beast

Than human being.

Trotting with Lancelot as if a heated mare pissing blood;

You move like a dog, and lick the tongue like an adder.

 

Let me be…

Will you not?

Will this rage have to burn forever?

When will you simply let me be the man I’m supposed to be?

Rather, you will turn on me, like you always did.

The moment I was vulnerable with you

You cast me away like I was nothing.

 

Type, o fingers, type.

There is nothing but madness in you.

Do you want classical Greece

Guinevere?

Do you want Rome?

How about the whole world?

That you’d take,

But I, I you wouldn’t.

Have it all.

 

I want no woman except the one who’d make this decision:

If given the world or me

She’d take me.

For that was my heart toward you.

But I was weak with you, wasn’t I?

And that made you lose your love for me.

It was not love that you felt, heifer.

Leave me, for I spit at you

Guinevere.

Why do I even have to know your ways?

Adulteress.

A thousand stories are told of you

And no man can understand it

Because he does not know your ways.

Yet I, I had to meditate on it

And save me once more, I did not make the mistake

Of courting you

And then having you find one superior to me.

 

With my inferiority, you take me.

For this, my love is pure

And I heard, “Loyalty is what’s most attractive.”

Loyalty is not attractive, but money, fame and prowess

Those are what attracts the woman Guinevere.

Let no man fool you.

Without a Sistine Chapel

If sculpted the Pieta

And David,

And painted the Sistine Chapel,

Where to go from there?

 

I have written Prophecy.

I have written in high English Poetry.

I have written Modernist Poems.

I have written Literature.

I have written High Fantasy.

I have written worlds as dense as Tolkien’s.

 

I look at the Writer’s Market.

It gets thinner every year.

 

A Tall Glass of Water

Standing, nodding off to sleep,

When it’s time for the grind,

A tall cup of water does the trick.

 

Nothing is like a tall glass of water.

When your mouth is a sponge

Because it’s too dry,

Drink that glass;

Smoothly it goes down.

A good glass of water is

Almost like cream in lather;

There is no taste,

But it is still sweet.

 

Grogginess,

Eating too much,

Feeling like a slug,

Fatigue,

A little of it all gets washed away,

Welcoming the day’s task.

Guinevere

I am angry with you

For what you didn’t do.

Left me, and did not come to me.

Why oh why did this mistress haunt?

Why did you flaunt?

Why did you show yourself

Just to disappear?

 

Around in circles we go

With no song able to inspire the insipid feeling

The one I have toward you.

It is not hate.

Rather, Guinevere,

You have made me lose faith in love.

 

Where were you when I needed you?

Where were you when I asked for you?

Hidden in the parcels of shadows

Like the very spectre I said I didn’t want.

 

You are more beast

Than human being.

Trotting with Lancelot as if a heated mare pissing blood;

You move like a dog, and lick the tongue like an adder.

 

Let me be…

Will you not?

Will this rage have to burn forever?

When will you simply let me be the man I’m supposed to be?

Rather, you will turn on me, like you always did.

The moment I was vulnerable with you

You cast me away like I was nothing.

 

Type, o fingers, type.

There is nothing but madness in you.

Do you want classical Greece

Guinevere?

Do you want Rome?

How about the whole world?

That you’d take,

But I, I you wouldn’t.

Have it all.

 

I want no woman except the one who’d make this decision:

If given the world or me

She’d take me.

For that was my heart toward you.

But I was weak with you, wasn’t I?

And that made you lose your love for me.

It was not love that you felt, heifer.

Leave me, for I spit at you

Guinevere.

Why do I even have to know your ways?

Adulteress.

A thousand stories are told of you

And no man can understand it

Because he does not know your ways.

Yet I, I had to meditate on it

And save me once more, I did not make the mistake

Of courting you

And then having you find one superior to me.

 

With my inferiority, you take me.

For this, my love is pure

And I heard, “Loyalty is what’s most attractive.”

Loyalty is not attractive, but money, fame and prowess

Those are what attracts the woman Guinevere.

Let no man fool you.

Advice to Young Writers

If you are writing for yourself

And it is something different then everyone else,

But you still desire to get paid…

 

You will hear time and time again,

“Write what sells, and then try to sell your writing then.”

It does not work.

 

Stefani Germanotta did a series of hits

And when she attempted to woo her true love,

You’d know the hits, but not of it

That she did.

 

For, her reputation was already made

To be a monster made by fame.

Write, instead, what is true to you.

 

Do not sell out,

For then you are a fool.

That’s Deep

The professor stood at the podium.

He opened up the poem.

From it he said,

 

“The poem is a warning about the British Isles,

“To stay unified, and therefore be impenetrable.

 

“The battle of Camlann,

“One of the three futile battles in British History,

“Is reflected back in the three futilities.

“The first futility is Guinevere’s love.

“The second futility Lancelot’s friendship.

“The third is Arthur’s landing at Dover.

 

“However, conquest was what brought Arthur away from the shores

“Conquest with France, with Rome.

“And this brought Mordred the opportunity

“To seize the throne, and to try and seize his stepmother the queen.

“And seeking conquest at the boarders of Mirkwood,

“What were unknown and uncharted lands,

“Arthur had to withdraw his force,

“And return to Britain,

“But it was futile, for Albion was already lost.”

 

One of the students said,

“That’s deep.”

 

The professor smiled,

“That is a Marianas trench.”

The Poets’ Purple Prose

What is valuable in literature

Is its metaphor.

 

Much like how Purple could not be discovered

Except by more advanced cultures

Through the refining of a language…

Even going so further to identify every color

With a unique name,

This is what metaphor does

To the invisible strings of truth.

 

They are able to be found

But can only be found in metaphor.

The fact that two men can say exactly the same thing

In completely different words—

With completely different stories—

Even reaching that lofty goal of an idea

Simultaneously, without knowledge of the one from the other…

 

There is proof of God’s existence.

And this is it.

That latent in the ethos of all thought

Truths can be found independently by one or another.