He doesn't prove witnesses are unreliable
But that modern culture is filled with liars.

Haunted like I always am by Prufrock,
A vision... Loveless, unsentimental,
Obtuse--- Successful for a time
And waning into your elder days
You are no longer famous.
You are "Counselor to princes."
Looking like the fool...
Balding, thinning, deluded by magic.

I've seen it in many academics.
So caught up in knowledge,
So inured by philosophy that love is like Prufrock's lovesong.
In and out they go, talking of Michelangelo...
A subject high and mighty.
Yet, it does not seem to interest Prufrock.
Why doesn't Michelangelo interest him?
Inured to beauty---
Likely you stare at blank walls, and jagged lines.
Michelangelo no longer interests you.

Do you believe you're like Lazarus? 
Do you believe you're like John the Baptist?
Grasping for an answer...
A false prophet, giving divisive counsel to the king.
Balding, thinning...

I'd rather be impoverished,
And like a monk compiling my odes
Than become you.
I'd rather hold onto Eternal Life.
As Eliot said, "Let me never turn again."
You made a public denunciation of me and my faith...
You are he, that Prufrock.
Balding, deluded and inured by your countless studies.
Ensconced in the dullness of Academia.
Obtuse. Sometimes ridiculous.
I simultaneously see you as the most vile man I can imagine...
A loveless psychopath murdering,
"A time to murder; a time to create."
In the collegiate world, or whatever world you walk in,
Your insomnia, your meandering through crooked streets
Seeing the shadow cross your room.
The yellow smoke reminiscent of Agent Orange
Reminiscent of Mustard Gas.
Muzzles, mustard gas...

For some reason you think you're Lazarus.
For some reason you think you're John the Baptist.
Holier than thou, a martyr.
I have a mental image of you, in your rolled up khakis,
Yet walking on the beach searching for Mermaids.
You drown yourself.

Let me never be you.
I never want to be you.

Deluded, ensconced in study;
Unloving, uncharitable...
Maddened by philosophy,
Maddened by Aristotelian Ethics.

You dabble in poetry, 
Like you were Yeats or Tolkien.
You think you were the Oxford Don,
You teach your class,
Your sing your liturgy of "Breasts!"
Like you had just recited Southey;
Filling the Stadium at Coventry
With adoring fans.
Your erotic poetry,
Like Endymion,
Feigns a greatness, 
Yet falls on ears like a guttery does eyes.

At the very most,
You are a sub par poet
Who's enjoyed his brief time of fame...
Working in the hallowed halls of Academia---
Unkind, unmoved by any great sympathy.
No... like so many scholars
You are not enthralled by Michelangelo.
You cannot enter into the fray,
The ecstasy---
He is overrated. That is what you think.
Jubilant, triumphant shouts over what could be mankind's greatest artist,
And it does not excite you;
Unlike a child who sees it for the first time
Who speaks for days, upon days, upon days.
What's more honest is the child's curiosity.
But, you stifle it...
Show your class a Joan Miro
For he you find worthy.
Does that even excite you?
The guttural banality of stick figures
And geometric shapes?
I'd say like a prude, like a simpleton,
Like a pompous ass, you dote over it.
For it tantalizes your toddler like mind.

I've built an entire empire through poetry;
Established through logic the principle that words
Have meaning. 

Yet you topple it down
By refusing to listen.

You attack a brother in Christ.
Let me defend him.

My words have bite, and I know my wisdom seeps into your soul.
You'll say, "Dude this guy is crazy,
"His words don't seep into my soul.
"He's a religious nut job with a blog."
And then you'll mention my criminal history.
Let me just say, that riotous past is why I 
Know you're wrong. There isn't any sin
I abstained from in youth;
And I know full well your every thought.
Subconsciously, they ream in me...
I understand your arguments better than you do.

Why is Homosexuality disgusting?
Because it plainly perverts our perceptions about reality.
By skewing the common discourse with foul notions,
It makes no man have a sense of purity.
Words wholly unsexed become scandalous.
Shakespeare sings a catamizing hymn to his son;
Fantasia's cupids are erotic---I've heard it said.
The Bible has no clear interpretation.
Anyone who reads the Bible knows you're plainly wrong.
But your smugness...
Homosexuals can't help themselves?
Then neither can a pedophile or rapist.
Why have laws at all, if people are bound to their sin
Genetically, and have no way to escape it?
It seems the Gospel is moot, now,
For the whole point of the good news
Is that doesn't have to be true.
How many gays want to be gay?
Used to be none of them;
Now it's hip, and in the by and by
And it's noble. And because of that
The knowledge of the past is entirely perverted

Homosexuals aren't always catamites,
I'll give you that.
But they surely are sodomites.
The Bible condemns sodomy.
In its literal translation, it categorizes Sodomites 
The same as Catamites.
Sodomites are anyone who have sex
Beyond penetrative vaginal sex.
And even that can clearly be a sin
If it's eaten by a paramour---which is another word the Bible uses.
Look it up.

And the Bible has a clear interpretation.
It is the story of Israel becoming a people,
And then sinning through Idolatry with Abortions, Sodomy and Paramours.
The Bible says that quite plainly.
Then God brought Babylon to Israel's walls;
Here, as a matter of history,
We have actual evidence that Babylon did this.
They besieged them,
And then the besieged city's people had to eat their own shit,
If not their neighbors.
Surprised I cuss?
"No,"
You say. I'm crazy, you say, you say, you say.
No... I'm just tired of people like you
Perverting everything you touch.

I spend a lifetime finding the meaning of the greatest literature in history.
And you, your whole generation,
Sweeps it away with one blatant, ignorant sweep.
Why is homosexuality wrong?
Because it clearly makes people unable to understand one another.
Simple proof is every lie you uttered.

And Christ is the restoration of that great siege.
He is the restoration of His people;
The Shepherd back to the Promised Land.

If Western Empiricism were only understood?
Then, classrooms would build squares
And test out the Quadratic Equation.
They would cut their squares, and see
The beautiful workings of geometry.
They would do calculus, and find it precisely
Forecasts measurements---they would test
It with the forces of Gravity.
They would see circles’ circumferences
Were Pi, if the diameter of a circle were one.
They would predict the volume of spheres;
They would understand the reason spheres
Are calculated, and they’d see by water displacement
That the calculations are 100% accurate.
They would, in remedial math courses,
Learn algebra through physics and electricity.
They would learn how electricity works
By testing it in the classroom.
They would measure velocity and distance and time.
They would learn geometry through Euclid,
And connect the limitations of physical reality.

Instead, our students are bombarded by deduction
Without any a posteriori understanding of why?
Deduction within deduction, within deduction---
If one has perfect logic, yet not a fact to use with it,
Then one can prove about anything---
So long as the logic is sound, it creates beautiful works of art.
Yet, to understand the simple nature of reality
Is to understand the subtle nature of how real world
Events dictate the interpretation of history.
That a word is as accurate as a scientist’s compass.
Should we know history… See history…
Understand Shakespeare for what he truly said,
Not what we had liked him to have said;
We would not pervert the science of the soul.
For, the mere fact that we make a lovesong
Of a man with his eleven year old son
To be an erotic evocation of a gay relationship
With a Duke--- There’s something perverted in our knowledge.
The fact that Fantasia’s nudity is seen in perverted light;
It means that someone must feel a cherub is erotic.
Not, however, to see the metaphor of erotic lovemaking
Which brings upon Cupid’s form from the womb.
No… Cupid is erotic, Shakespeare is singing love songs about his son.
Why I cling to my Bible is that it helps erase that nonsense
An align my soul back to understanding things
Without the perverted intrusion of sensualities
Which ought not be interpolated into the text;
Save that an individual is perverted beyond all measure.
Yet, because we live in a perverted culture
Cupid is erotic, and Shakespeare sings erotic stanzas
To his eleven year old son Hamnet, whom the poem
So clearly is talking about by reference a dozen times to death’s deparation.

For one hundred and eighty years
The Boers and the Rebels fought wars
For one hundred and eighty years
The Boers and the Rebels fought wars
Bloody and broken. Between gaps
They would rest, and blood would spill out
Upon the grassland’s ruby clay 
Of the African bush. Back, forth
They would wound and maim, and so kill
The Redcoat and Boer Warrior’s bled.
On the final salvo, after
Many years of slaughter, the Boers
Took one last push into Redcoat
Lines, yet the Redcoats repelled them
For they were refreshed by a moment’s
Hesitation from the Boer lines.
Fifty-One hundred Rebels slain
And Fifty-two hundred Boers lay
Dead upon the open plains, heaped
Into their rows, where the dead lie.

The cure kills.
Bodies float down the Ganges 
Starved from the Locusts which wiped out 
Half of the crop.
Meanwhile, being told to stay indoors,
And not go into the market to avoid getting sick.
A well fed individual has nothing to fear from it.
But, a man told not to go to market,
Told to wear a mask which costs a day’s salary---
They die for they’re blocked from access to food.
Meanwhile, Joe Biden forces Americans to take vaccines;
A hot meal is the best vaccine medicine can afford.
And for over ninety percent of the world
They are being blocked from having it.

Are we anymore free today
With science as our guide?
Are we any happier?
Are we any more blessed?
Are we any more satisfied by love?
Are we less hungry?
Are we sheltered more?
Are the governments any more benevolent?
Are the children any safer?
Are the schools better?
Is the child’s hope in the future any brighter?

It seems five years of the reign of Science
Has already crippled the Earth totally.

I spy upon the Earth the reverberating 
Circle--- There are Christians who lose their faith over
A small detail wrong in our Holy Text. I say
God doesn’t care about small details. Just the big
Picture. Yet, with this there is an end to wisdom
When the zealot, clinging to his faith, seeks scripture
And sees the most minute detail wrong; “An Error!”
And then the Atheist says, “See! If thou cannot
“Trust God to make the Bible all inerrant, then thou
“Canst trust a word the Bible doth say? Canst thou, now?
“For if the Bible be inspired by God, how
“I say to you, can you believe anything it 
“Says, if I find this little, innocuous thing?”
I say, one ought to know God, and it won’t be a
Problem. For, if one communes with God, God’s love will
Show one the fact that our Bible is not a god
Nor is it God’s flesh, nor is it God’s power. Words
It is, transcribed by prophets, written by Jesus.
But it is not the object of our faith. So what
Kierkegaard says, that faith is more important than 
The object of faith, which for many Christians is 
The Bible. How do we know it is true? Because
It speaks independent truths which man can find on
Their own, yet no man, save God, was aught wise enough
To find aught morsel of Wisdom’s objective truths.

I spy upon the Earth the reverberating
Circle--- There are Heathens who find god’s Paraclete
And they believe they have found full revelation.
Knowing power, they find themselves descending deep
Into the recesses of dark idolatry.
For, knowing power, they know not whether it be
Darkness or light--- This is why one must couple truth
And power--- for if they’re found independently
Christians find all wisdom---to which there is an end;
And wisdom not knowing God or tasting power
Is as dangerous as Heathens tapping into it 
Like a thief. For knowing the Bible without first
Knowing God denies the power and existence
Of God. Yet knowing God exists, finding  power,
Is to know God, without washing in His clean blood.

The portrait of a wicked man is such:
He, having blood money, throws it at the
Priests, where the silver coins spill onto the
Temple's floor. The Priests then persuade Judas
To accompany them, for it’s bloodcoin
And then they buy the Potter’s Field with him
To mock Jeremiah’s prophecy. Weak
Judas then realizes a prophecy
Has been fulfilled, and he hangs himself in
The field, where several two-days later his
Rotten corpse spills his purple guts.