When every idea is mastered...
The art of subtlety commenced into the ephemera of time...
A fruitful mind will, no shall know...
That only the fruitful can agree.
Only the artist can understand
The peering question.
A snap crackle and pop for the inquisitor,
But, the artist shall know.

When every idea is mastered,
The master then becomes the teacher.
The joy of instilling the past
Of passing down a tradition
To the next generation of young minds.

The philosopher spent his journey learning what is
Wisdome... when he came to his own wisdom
It was simply chaff.
The eccentricities of bitter wars,
Of conflicts, diseases of the mind.
Upon the still of reason
The refinery of our liquor,
The wine of our words
Became infused with the mastery over the subject.
So that all was under the philosopher's domain.

Thus, upon his rood of wisdom,
He had only one thing left to do. 

In an age of censorship
My heart yearns with rage
To say my words.
My heart burns, my words spew.

"It is good."

Our cities burn.
Our cities burn you fools.
As the genocides of Hitler become censored.
Hitler's genocide, his atrocities,
Are censored on Your Television.

Men with breasts march with the swastika of their 
Venom, women with cropped hair and dyes
Threaten the police.

O' Napoleon, will your grapeshot put them in line?
Will the Bastille fall?
Will the guard's heads be paraded on pikes?
O' Robespierre, will you guillotine the clergy?

The Femfascists are among us...
Black leotards, fishnet, hair dye
And silicon breasts.
They march with their rifles...
The fruitless revolution
To place on the throne The Cult of the Supreme Being
The Cult of Reason...

Will science spill the blood of all kaffirs?

If there's one thing that ought be left amoral
It ought to be science.

That is to say,
Racism, Religious Discrimination, Ethnic Cleansing
Homosexuality, Serial killing, Pedophilia,
Hedonism, The Lobster's Capitalism
And Abortion
Are a few things Science is starting to poke and prod
At, as if they were moral things in of themselves.

What we should understand is that we are men;
Not an animal. For, science categorizes us with the Fauna,
But our consciences say otherwise.

The misfit finds his rebel cause.

Goes to war, defies all the laws.

How a ripe peach of which to pluck

Is the rebel’s cause loved so much.

I? I sit, also, misfit too

Unabashed from eternal youth.

My creative means dries so much

My country dies, the one I love.

Is the rifle my fated way?

To lose myself in coup d’é tat?

Will it suffice this longing heart?

Will I in glory play my part?

No! I say, in my angry gloom.

My vengeance shall be bloody noon.

I would rather let life depart

From my nostrils than play my part.

I will laugh at the wretched dogs

As my body swings o’er the logs.

I died, your hope for freedom last.

Because you’d not free me, I laughed.

Lay open vestibule of our greatest minds,

Upon the lap of the only man in a quarter century

To open thy door, and see thy cataract.

The strophe and antistrophe

Which haven’t a soul

To espouse Grecian category’s empty words;

No, but to me you mean the top and bottom

Of those flawless chemicals of geometry;

A cataract, just like the Great Falls of Buffalo.

Am I the only man to see it for a quarter century?—

How so austere at first

It dances around my eyes,

The ugly ink and plain words.

Yet, it is perfect in meaning.

How does a man explain poetry

To those who never drink from its mousse?

It merely tells us what rests beyond all artifice

Into the meaning of these things

We might never take a passing glance.

Waterfalls might have a certain chemical,

Something between Geometry and Stars,

But do those chemicals have meaning?

Or, does the meaning create the chemicals?

A man who feels truth is very deceived,

Yet, if one could see the pure feeling of Niagara Falls

That my sinful self could not appreciate…

I will remember the feeling later, at a second glance

In a poem nobody has read for over twenty years.

And that is why I know there is sin.

That is why I know there is such foulness.

I can know the feeling then and now

Both the same, but then I would not chew upon it.

Today, without beholding what my eyes had once seen,

I can see it once again, and in that sight,

Understand what sin truly was.

A lie we tell ourselves to spoil what is good and right before our eyes.

Then, later, one meditates on it from afar,

Without the beauty before flesh’s eyes.