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.
The Hymn of the Citizens
Fife and drum go Hum dee dum,
The marching citizens draw their guns
Their words, their airs, their country farms
Did get sold by the county Bar…
Hum dee dum,
Hum dee dumb.
We wage this revolution with our words
Not a bullet we will incur
We shall march in our battle lines
With these words and verse so spry…
Hum dee dum,
Hum dee dumb.
If a martyr we shall make
To speak our words and masticate
That violence spreads in silent wakes
Hum dee dum
Hum dee dumb.
I shall not e’er throw a stone
If I shall die all alone
I shall not ever throw a stone
For my words are mortar bombs
Hum dee dum,
Hum dee dumb.
Wage a revolution wise
That men in flames, they do die
While I have sung my battle cries
For the wasted men who die
Hum dee dum,
Hum dee dumb.
We might have our first president
A woman good with righteousness
She might give us what we need
A stitch, a bone and well hemmed sleeves
Hum dee dum,
Hum dee dumb.
But the ghosts they testify
That with the awful costs they cry,
That they should give a man his rights
When a woman ought to win the fight,
Hum dee dum,
Hum dee dumb.
Trump, I say, is not the cost
He is not the one who robbed us all
It is not Warren nor congress’ cauc…
It is all the specious laws we wrought,
That by liberty’s woes they cause,
Hum dee dum,
Hum dee dumb.
So I sing this verse or two
Of revolution with words couth
That if a woman should not be right
But a man should win the fight,
Hum dee dum,
Hum dee dumb.
The Misfit Finds His Rebel Cause
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.
The Only Man; A Meditation on Coleridge’s Poem Where He Meditates on a Cataract
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.
B. K. Neifert 