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?
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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.
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 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.
Alexander Hamilton; A Tall Tale
He was a good ol’ boy
Whom a judge bought shoes for
So he could attend his mama’s funeral.
He found himself, later on in life
The chief of merchants at a shipyard station.
He saw a slave branded one day at the yard,
So he set out to hate slavery his whole entire life.
He went to college, like any decent gentleman might,
But soon found himself stirred by the continental army.
Well, Hamilton joined the ranks of Washington
And was made second only to him.
He even killed five Tories in one day
So legend had it.
At the Continental Congress
Hamilton wanted a strong government,
So he used his freedom of speech to unify the country.
He wanted a fair government.
And sure enough, he got one.
He tidied the War Debt,
And set America straight on her path.
Well, on Alexander’s last day of life
He was challenged to a duel.
It was the Vice President himself
Aaron Burr.
Alex, for honor’s sake, shot his bullet straight into the air
For he had honor, and was not a man of show.
Having set his nation’s path to longevity,
Aaron Burr couldn’t care; he, a man of great dishonor,
Shot Alexander in the head,
And after thirty hours, Alexander Hamilton was dead.
10 Questions Atheists Cannot Answer Satisfactorily
- How did nothing create something?
- What is the meaning of life?
- Why love unconditionally?
- Why do you suppose morals are a matter of belief, and not knowledge?
- Why is there no God when we clearly observe there is moral objectivity?
- If you disagree with there being moral objectivity, how can there be morality if morals are a matter of opinion?
- If morals are a matter of opinion, what makes one set of morals better than another?
- What stops someone who has no hope of a better future from being the worst person imaginable, just to make it in this world?
- Why risk your life for someone else, when all there is, is death?
- Why aren’t morals objective?
Character is More Important than Reason
Character is more important than reason.
You can be smart, but cruel.
You can be stupid, but kind.
Religion helps keep the world kind.
So be it if it keeps us a little stupid.
There are plenty of things which we ought not to know.
So there’s no question,
I am unequivocally a Christian.
I’ve found the easiest things to believe are often false.
While the more nuanced a thing,
The more it turns out to be true.
Atheism is too easy to believe
Because it’s built on simple premises.
Christianity, on the other hand,
Is too nuanced to set aside and reject.
What an Atheist believes with his reason
He is often made presumptuous and a complete jackass.
What a Christian believes by faith,
Often works in practice, and I can have no doubt
That something imaginary cannot be the foundation
Of human cooperation.
There must be a God, because belief in Him is beyond humanity’s ability to comprehend.
Yet, on the outer precipice of Genius,
It can only be so that He exists;
While the inner thoughts of man seem to reject what they cannot understand,
I embrace it because nothing that is true
Is ever so simple as a pithy statement.
B. K. Neifert 