My foreboding turns into delusion As I told him he needed to be better. I feel like the Asian mom haranguing The child because they aren't quite at the level. Of course, he goes, and instantly gets accepted. Oblivious to the fact that I am right. I don't say these things to upset him, Only to make him better. Yet, maybe my pleonastic prose are his sour notes. Maybe my long first paragraphs are his tawdry bends. Maybe my attempt at Pentameter is his sweet picking Or, perhaps, he is just better than me at everything. His professors laude his writing skills; All I see is that it needs work. He plays his guitar well, But then must play fast, And when he does, various inarticulate notes creep in, But perhaps I am the only one that hears them. He beats me at chess, a game I've studied. He beats me without studying it. However, I have been quite dull these days With my mind flattened by the stress. Maybe I am just mediocre. Maybe... But, I tell him my folksy wisdom To choose his notes. And he succeeds, and I fail. As he takes a test online for his class, I say a silent prayer, "Don't let him fail." Because my failure is enough to break me. No door opens, my poems don't make it to the search page. What's more frustrating, is that everything I do Is hedged in, and I cannot break free of it. I see him skipping over fences. I ask myself why this is? It's not jealousy; It's just watching someone else succeed While I languish in the pit I have dug for myself. I speak, and it doesn't come true. All the better if it doesn't. Yet I can't help but speak... I try to well up the words. But they come out. And I suffer for it, Facing a wall of poverty. Is it because I cannot trust in God? Why would I trust in God? God doesn't open doors for me. Though I love him, I feel like a caged pig, A worthless, slovenly animal Trapped in a cage; But love is funny. Any sense of true anger Turns into thankfulness that my brother doesn't have to suffer this. I am thankful that it's him suffering nothing, And I suffer. But, at some point, The suffering needs to end So I do not become a bitter man. For love is funny, In that I can be happy for my brother Yet, for myself, I will be unloving to all around me because my life is bitter And all my joys are turned to darkness.
Category: Poem
Hedonism
Hedonism, Hedonism, O, thy wreath of fame. Vomitoriums no longer, For men... they say... do not display. Callously, the atheist chomps To win the never ending debate. His Reason is his tool, His tool is his gate. For love, he says, is more beautiful as a chemical. Morality, more beautiful without a law. Science can reason our goodness. Archaeology why Satan did not fall. To this dark omen, A chemical can one day cease. A world without a Law, would be violence in the streets. Animals do, yes they do, commit every terrible crime. Archaeology, they say, shows why men are not divined. For the evidence proves, That men are like the beasts. And Noah's flood is immoral, Yet this forecast is quite bleak. For at the end of times, What is beautiful cannot sway. For beauty is just a chemical Like a photosynthesized ray. Does not the truth put sway upon our hearts? Do not the stars, impart a certain charm, And geometry lighten the more one does chart? Is not love a good thing And is not the chemical inspired by the truth? Not the feeling is the truth, But the liquor of it true? For feelings do not say, What is good or so very dark. But, rather, they are gifts given by God To help us know when a thing's a farce. A good heart tests the liquors, A good heart tastes all the wines. And when an inebriation becomes hollow Idolatry is the kind Of drunkenness, worshiped above our God. For feelings do not make true, But truth does feelings impart. Yet, when the heart is bad And cannot draw a sympathetic string When kindness does not etch Into the hearts of man and king... When instead, the heart is dull The feelings unfelt. When another man's feelings One cannot tell. Then, I say, corrupt it has to be. Yet even more so than that Is saying God is but a fleet Of feelings, and wrong assumptions made. For it is indeed Christ Who brings peace to all hearts this way. Yet, Hedonism, The ode upon my lyre, Dulls all good feelings And dampens a holy fire. For the liquors come, And tamper down the flames. It dulls the heart The heart it breaks. For all sympathy is broken, The heart is so unkind Who hedonism has broken Who hedonism has maligned.
Freedom of Speech
It's gone. The corporation can take it from you By simply lolling you to sleep. Withdraw the hand that feeds And one cannot eat. Extort, so that the only way to earn bread Is to obey the companies that tell you. 14,000,000 people were killed in the Holocaust. 20,000,000 people were killed in Stalin's Holocaust. 100,000,000 people were killed in Mao's Holocaust. Children die in war. When we dropped our bombs, did it only kill men? Men with helmets? No, women, children, they died too When we bombed Germany. Ask any soldier how to win an occupation? Kill down to the last child. If God said to do it once, Once in all of history. Then consider the cannibals that they murdered. Slavery is a punishment inflicted on a nation. When that nation ritualistically cannibalizes its infants When that nation sodomizes its child prostitutes When that society sacrifices little children I think putting them to work is a mitigated sentence. God does, in fact, destroy. He will bring plauges. And those plagues comfort me. What else is to be done to a nation of murderers Who smear Fetus over their skin To stay healthy? Who barter the blood of infants For their products? Why is what is about to happen will happen? Because there is no right and wrong To this generation. Murder is good, if it's in the name of Anarchy and violence. But, God's war is far too viscous. The Crusades were defensive wars, To protect against invaders. Ask any Muslim whether it is justified to defend your territory At a cost of human life. Americans piously drop bombs in Iraq And burst women and children's flesh Yet it is only unethical if it's a sword. Let the children wander in their war zones... Because that's right. YouTube is censoring this information. It's the cold hard truths. War, the more violent side wins. That's why we don't fight them. That's why there are nation states Which give bounds, so remove not the ancient boundaries. What is wicked is waging war with kids gloves So an entire continent suffers. What is immoral is marching armies With the thought that war can be fought reserved... Meanwhile, children lose everything, and get indoctrinated. Ask any soldier about those verses in the Bible That talk about war. Those who have killed a child, for in war everything is justified. That is why one ought not fight it. War is wicked, because believe in the Bible And it makes war the most wicked thing in the world. That is why God is moral. Because He doesn't make war glorious. He doesn't make war anything but what it is... Supreme evil. And with that, it is why the Law of War brings me comfort That it ought not be fought in our day and age. And all of this is censored on Your Television.
The Realized Philosopher
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
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
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.
A Lament for Poets; 2016
The poor old woman lifted up her voice again,
“The fowler had taken all the blackbirds away—
“They all were gone, and I knew not to where.
“I looked for them; truly I did.
“There was one I saw several decades ago
“But he had flown far away; the Skylarks
“Such pretty voice, yet also very common,
“Now warble their tunes from time to time—
“But, as I had sung about the blackbirds—
“Not the Jacobites,—When my crown was lost,
“There had recently appeared at my door
“A thrush, who though not as pretty a song as the skylark
“Had the dignity and pearly sheen of feathers I like.
“My heart was refreshed by seeing him,
“Though I had wished I would see more,”
Said the poor old woman, knitting upon the hills.
The Woke Alpha Male
There's nothing to write. Fifteen times this line. All my lofty notions are expired. The vortex spins. Chewing away at my wisdom, my knowledge. An open door of the new truths Old truths rebranded with the breath of realpolitik. All is a weapon... Man versus woman. Black versus white. Now, the time told truth of the Old Maid Gets made the infidel, As a Bachelor is now a cuckold And a Forsaken bride a feminist. My raw pen is said to be mightier than the sword Yet the Bourbon crown withholds my wheat. I destroy them with my verse... Oh Hapsburg, o' Napoleon. Yet, the war of the basic cruditity Of genitalia and forsaken vows... All are weak if they do not sow their seed. Angst, and frustration... o blithe power That a dictator half a world away destroyed all his women;--- Thus, the curse turns on us that too many men were born. So, eternal angst, and war. Sow your seed, profligates... For it is your love that is faulty. Not mine.
Where Are the Flies?
Where are the flies?
Where are the spiders?
Man, afraid of a Boogieman
Don’t have their backyard barbecues.
So, the flies die.
So, the spiders don’t make their intricate webs on my windowsill.
So, man, being infinitely wise.
Has not a clue that he is a part of the ecosystem.
The flies feed the fish, the flies feed the bats
The flies feed the spiders, the flies feed the pheasant.
I had seen so few this year,
Because the carcasses of our mid-summer feasts
Do not grace the foul odors of the trash with the maggots.
For, those little maggots feed the sparrows,
And the flies feed the bats,
And the bats are fed on by the fox
And the fox feeds on the hens
Who feeds on the flies.
So, it remains, that man is necessary,
Yet, who is feeding the man,
Now that we cower in our homes?
The rich harvest delayed.
Man must, yes he must,
Shop sheltering indoors.
For, the realization is that man is needed
For the fly, who feeds the duck and fish.
And without man, the fly wanes
So I see maybe fifteen all season long.
So it soon comes that man was necessary
And man is a part of nature.
And without him, on God’s green earth,
The ecosystems fail’th.
The Duke’s Dirge
Shorn the sheep to graze in fields, peridot,
The jeweled sun’s breath upon the burnished cheek;
Kin we were in kith we ran the ramparts
Of our boyish troop, upon the dragon’s gorge.
It reared upon us one silent hour
O’ that brother of the Jeweled Seraphim,
Son of Satan and Scylla, most unwise.
He is a man like any other, plush
With his mischief upon the earth, rosy
Are his cheeks; richer he is than the king.
The Seraphim will bind his sire in
Juddecca’s chains, cast him down to hell. Yet.
That foe Death, only one will vanquish:—Christ.
The winds of the eastern vault bring pleasant
Breeze, to where we once in boyhood’s gay charms
Played with sticks, and serious was our charge
To guard the gates of those ruddy warriors.
The armies salvos over the hills, arms
March out to war, in our memory’s past;
Those games we played as youth, with prop instead
Of cold metal in the scabbard’s tang.
Never was Satan’s sire, that Scylla’s
Bastard, a thought upon our mind, when war
Burgeoned in the hill valleys of our play.
Yet, the silent winds cooled our childhood’s
Games. And the sweet smell of the heather blooms
Rose through the air with the mowed grass; sticks crossed
Their tackles, but not the iron of war.
Brother, I pray you find rest in the green
Lights of Paradise’s grove; so rest sound.
For our swords would cross in amateur play
Yet, now the Bastard has crept through your door.
Raise; raise you Duke
At the last Trumpet’s sound
Into paradise.
B. K. Neifert 