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Thursday, August 29, 2013

From Nordics to Normandy


Hateful voices cloud my vision and my heart boils as my ears are pierced with the clatter of kike.
Old remnants of the Third Reich.
Though I was under the impression that these serpents of ceremonial slaughter lost their place in the world a good seventy years ago.
But some still walk that road.
And remain in their volatile mode.
A dead era’s episode.
And yet the darkness follows me and all the rest like a vulture.
And we can’t seem to love one another's culture.
Truthfully, I probably sound like some Hippy.
Trying to relive 1960.
Can I bestow with you a flower upon your gun?
A perfect pacifistic empire of the sun.
And now I’m lost in the disillusion that there may truly be no hope.
When all I’m lookin at is three little boys on a rope.
I’m disgusted by what I see.
What hate prospered in the 20th Century.
In a world of frauds and fakes.
Were prone to so many God awful mistakes.
And I know I can’t be the only soul that shakes.
Witnessing the red rivers humanity makes.
Just look back upon a time.
Before the raps, the riddles and the rhyme.
When our dear earth was pure.
And we didn’t need some clean energy cure.
I’m sincerely unsure.
If its creationism.
Or just sensationalism.
And God damn it why don’t I have all the prescriptions to my problems.
You answer me that oh dear holy father?
No your not even listening, you won’t even bother.
I’m just trying to get back to the days of Cane and Abel.
Before Europe went unstable.
When we had purity.
And some sense of security.
When the Garden of Eden nourished Adam and Eve.
Before the satanic serpent showed his sinful sleeve.
Before Napoleon rose to power.
And burnt down King Louie’s tower.
Before the movie pictures, the poetry and the plays.
Before Woodstock rolled their blunts to blaze.
Before David played the harp, in the name of the Lord.
Before Achilles stayed in Troy, and claimed fame with a sword.
Once upon a day.
 Before Industrialization transformed the world to gray.

It is the legacy we chose to sow.
Before Ivory became Ebony's foe.
A long long time ago.
Before Spartacus changed the game.
And claimed Rome's fame.
It was inked into permanence with the theological biblical text.
That put popes to rest, and made sinners confess.
Now TMZ tells us when the sun will set.
And CNN will tell us when Charlie Sheen's upset.
In the age of the Internet.

Now the 21st Century shines new light.
As humanity struggles to find what's right.
And I look around me and all I see is a rumbled America in a new age new era.
Blood stained stripes in the mirror.
My feet are planted in the solemn steps of my red white and blue.
In the star spangled banner that I once knew.  
Wealth's to wastelands of the third world war.
Black Golds is what we decided to die for.
And as I stand here.
Shedding my patriotic tear.
In the irony of the truth that we  are not slaughterers. 
And it's not the legacy of our founding fathers.

To live in this burned out body of battered Earth.
Of where I share my birth.

Because now only death and destruction rule the day.
So why do I stay?

As the ramparts were so gallantly streaming. 
Saying their last goodbye to the twilight's last gleaming. 

As I behold the silver star crafts leaving. 
Colonization opportunities beaming.

As they sail on their voyage. 
I'll stay here. 
On the only world I've ever known. 

While others fly away across the cosmos.
Where nobody knows those.

Who sung the Harlem Blues.
And liberated the Jews.
America the beautiful with your gracious skies.
And your amber eyes.

In the land of the brave. 
Where that star spangled banner may yet still wave. 

This soil is all of me.
My whole hearted history.
Marauders and mystery.

In this life I was jolly.
But here I stand melancholy.

America, my darling, your the only home I ever knew. 
And the truth is, I don’t know what to do.
So this is the story of human creation.
In the dawn of the American nation.  
Malcolm X once said that we must always live separate.
Because we never live equal.
Because in a world of distrust. 
The white man will never be just.
And every word that he, spews from his serpentine lips, is a word he lied to us. 
And ever absurdly, takes us further from thee truth, is another right he denied to us. 

We can never live side by side.
As brothers and sisters. 
So now I ask this question to you. 
Do you believe his philosophies true?

Have the decades since proved him wrong?
Is the 21st Century singing a new song?

Can mortal men change their chord?
Because my feet can't carry me far enough Lord.
And this soul can't stay bound to this mortal world Lord.

And the cold unforgiving hatred in this world is all I've ever known.
Constantly living with sins we can never atone. 

And the people of this mortal decoil have called me a Mick, Lord.
And they've called me a Spic, Lord.

But what they don't know Lord is that the blood that runs in these veins is so much more than just black or white.

It's red, white and blue.
It's as green as the prairies and pastures made out of you.

Though some with not as much faith in your creations. 
Would have us believe.

That humanity.
It's made out of insanity.
That comes out of genocidal vanity.

And I remember the Great Memphis Pastor. 
And his great words of wisdom.
As he preached about the freedom that would rain from the hill tops of Georgia. 
Washing away the injustice the world bore yah.  

I listened to his speech.
 And the future he sought to reach. 

I see it in this world today. 
And maybe were not so utterly gray. 
And I was thinkin about. 
How he was quotin Lincoln no doubt.

As he spoke of the fore score and seven years ago.
Singing sweet land of liberty. 
America, Tis of thee. 

Because no matter what lies remain in society. 
Man comes in a thousand shapes and varieties. 
You can say it's the texture that lays upon our skin. 
But it's not the culprit of our sin. 
You can say it a thousand times. 
But it's not the colors that commit our crimes. 
The Pastor talked about a great American. 
Who simply tried to act a Good Samaritan.

Signing the Emancipation Proclamation. 
And without hesitation.
The world put two bullets in their heads.
And they were laid down to rest in their coffin beds.                                                              
Just like Mahatma Gandhi, Malcolm X and two of the Kennedy's. 
The world paid them back for their peaceful obscenities.
Setting flames to their ideological serenity's.
So answer let me ask you now, Lord.  
Is my soul sinful and sorrowful and bound for hell?
Because sometimes I feel like you and I are just strangers who just happen to know each other very well.
Is this my fateful destiny that is to be unfurled?
The deepest darkest depths of your dark angel’s underworld.
But Lord I hope that even in the flaws of humanity.
You look past our vanity.
And our constant insanity.
Past the blood stain of Russian Marxism.
Past our racism.
And the corrupt system.
Past our war.
And the Vietnam boys we sent off to do LBJ’s tour.

Please forgive our politically incorrect politicians.
And even our desert storm missions.

Because I don't know if we'll every stop sinning?
And realize that war isn't winning.

Because what we currently consider to be victory.
Its truly sick to me.

It’s time to find our unity.
I have a rhyme in mind for impunity.
To give our sinners their immunity.
Do the heavens cry crocodile tears to appear right?
Or do they truly want us to unite?
Did you make us like this on purpose?

Flawed and inflamed.
The pacifists waiting off to the side, ashamed.
There are so many roads of possibility of yet explored.
Cause I see a day when we can be better Lord. 

The centuries are changing us.
Remedies for the hatred and disgust.
Turning old conflicts to dust. 

As bombs burst turning the world to vapor.
This pen will forever fix to paper. 

Cause I'm spreading  the gospel of peace, sire. 
Heading towards the race war's ceasefire.

Because one day we may finally see. 
The end to this infinite fallacy.

The long awaited day when the bullets are a relic.
Do the war torn not cry for a day so angelic?
 A day when we can speak of great history.
And look back on our glorious legacy.
And with honest sincerity. 
I title this poem, philosophers of prosperity.
Because the generations remember the names  
Lincoln and they remember Doctor King.  

For as history as shone. 
Their names are carved in stone. 

Even after they've turned from ash and bone.
Their legacy will forever sit upon it's holy throne. 

And though the assassin's bullet stole these philosophers from us while their song was young. 
Their legacy will remain an empire of the sun. 
And just like us, the children of our children will sing your songs too.
And forever they'll remember you.   
And as long as there are teachers to teach. 
And preachers to preach. 

Poets to poeticize.
And romantics to romanticize. 

The words of great individuals will never go unheard.
And their message will never die. 

Because as history would have it their legacy was meant to last. 
And nobody will forget the philosophers of the past.

Monday, August 26, 2013

Hell is

Hell is a vast nothingness of darkness that envelopes the soul.
Hell is a burning fire that takes damnation’s toll.
Hell is waiting for the fire.
Hell is dressed in red satanic attire.
Hell is for the fire.
Hell is children for hire.
Hell is hate without love.
Hell is no-god up above.
Hell is the afterlife of sin.
Hell is a fate you can’t win.
Hell is an underworld of sorrowful disposition.
Hell is Lucifer’s wishful thinking.
Hell is the taste in your mouth of ashes of fallen words.

Sunday, August 25, 2013

The Millenniums

A blue world plagued by war
And red is the rivers as we leave them
Battle is a beast’s belly
Ever rumbling
Love replaced to make way for intolerance
Inabilities to prosper
Where is the brotherhood that beats the war drums?
In finality, there is no final day for marching
To the last second, a last drop of blood
No possibility to quench the everlasting thirst
Conflict across millenniums
From the Nordics to Normandy
The warrior’s spirit never perishes in the flames
Like a resurrecting phoenix
New passion is born from the ashes
The hunger to ride upon legions for conquest never dies with the millions

And were always left wanting more

Resurrecting Phoenix

           As Alexander Cromwell, Captain of the space voyager vessel, Resurrecting Phoenix, stood on the Himalayan mountain top, he took a picture of the sun set, for it would be the last time he would ever lays eyes upon it, he wanted to remember this moment forever.
          The Captain looked out, gazing at the somber clouds, rooted in utter darkness, stained by the pollution that ran rampant in the year 2233. He looked down to the metropolitan ruins that once made up the culture rich-society of India. Now all that remained of the apocalyptic wasteland were rumble remnants from skyscrapers that once stood as a center of commerce and economic fruition.
          But regretfully the nations of Earth plunged themselves a great conflict of perpetuated suffering and carnage. And yet somehow an end to the bloody endeavor was sought. But not through the raising of white flags and diplomatic intervention but by the use of chemical weapons that left behind a radiation so powerful that Earth’s atmosphere was no longer a desirable home for humanity. With the spread of deadly airborne toxins, pandemonium erupted into anarchist chaos, as governments were no longer able to control their people as riots and rebellions broke out as a result of the plaguing disease that had so rapidly claimed millions and before too long, billions.
          Now the only thought that crossed the Captain mind was, how long till I get off this desolate rock, there’s nothing left for me here. Alexander’s wife Athalia was pregnant and he no interest in raising his child in the hell hole that had become of his home world.    

6 YEARS LATER

           Amongst the stars and the asteroids of the cosmos that made up the Solar System of the Nexis Sector a lone ship cut through the air like butter rapidly bypassing several moons, similar to the ones seen back on Earth. The ship was a silver painted spacecraft build out of a Boeing 747 cargo transport commercial airliner. It was soon approaching a massive orange planet. The colossal gas giant had a Jupitarian appearance to it.
           Its aesthetic beauty was an illustrious spectacle to behold for Captain Alexander Cromwell. Regretfully it had been too long since his eyes had laid witness to any celestial body. Absent the warmth and familiarity of Earthly soil beneath the feet, to remember what it once meant to be human.
           As Alexander stood in the pilot’s chamber memorized at what would become mankind’s new home, tears fell from his cheeks. Not tears of mourn but tears of overwhelming merriment.
          The Captain’s co-pilot, Commodore Trey Winter noticed the water works and gave out a clamorous cough. “Captain Cromwell, I've never known a man of your prestige to cry at the sight of a planet?” He asked.
           “Don’t you see Commodore? This is more than just a planet. It’s our salvation. Our chance to start a new,” Cromwell replied. Suddenly as if it out of thin air Admiral Lawrence Brigham came into the room unannounced and interjected himself into the conversation, “It’s a magnificent sight to behold, isn't it gentlemen?”
           It was a magnificent sight to behold. Alexander wondered what this new world would look like. Would the oceans be blue as the oceans once were, back home? Or would they come a new shade? Black as the night sky. Black as the vast nothingness of deep space. Black as the souls of the men who turned Earth to ash and peace to pain.
          Men whose names were carved into the stones of history for turning prosperity to perpetuated conflict and beside the black oceans and the black seas, the jungles of famous green that shined like emerald gem back on Earth may stand red. Jungles of red, like the blood stains of Normandy’s beaches. Red as the battlefields of Thrace in the Ancient wars of Ancient Gods. Red as the blood stripes of Alexander’s flag. A flag that once belonged to the nation of his birthplace. A nation that he witnessed crumble before his very eye, in an uprising known as the Second Civil War.
          This was the national identity of the Resurrecting Phoenix, for the blood stripes belonged to the colonists and when they reached their new home they would plant their flag in its soul.
          “It is magnificent,” Alexander agreed, “And in just seven days we will see what natural beauty it has waiting for us.”
            “I hope the clouds are made of wine so that I may drink the rain,” the Commodore Winter quipped. “You could drink the rain back on Earth, could you not?” Admiral Brigham pointed out. “Yes, but it did not taste of wine,” Winter reminded him.

Pit of Inferno

It’s a crocodile tear.
Only there to preserve falsified truths.
Working against my perception of known reality.
So I dance with you.
Though my careful steps won’t let me fall into the bottomless pit of inferno that is your spider web of intricate lies.
And I distance myself from your deterioration.
The pandemonium of pure madness that has taken your intellectual process of thought and transformed it into the fanatical psychotic asylum that is your life.
And all that’s left of you is the abhorrent swamp of dissatisfied faces that you keep letting down in your ever spiraling whirlpool of infinite nothingness.

Tuesday, August 13, 2013

Confessions of a Fugitive

Born November 1995. I look in the mirror every morning and there stands a young muscular olive tanned Honduran. He’s been through so much. The dark baggage under his eyes shows years far past the 17 that he has lived on this Earth. His songs are ones to be told the through the generations far after his mortal coil has departed. This is the story of Andres Waterhouse.
When I was 13 the 18th Street Gang killed my Uncle Julio.
Julio had killed many family members and now it was time for someone else to repay the dept to him. I couldn’t stay. I had to leave behind my life. I had to leave behind my family. I didn’t have a choice. Everyone in my village was telling me, they’ll be coming for you next.
I decided that the land of opportunity might give me a chance to start again. In a new life in a new country where my Uncle’s dark past couldn’t hurt me.
For many months I lived as a stow away on the back of a freight train headed for the states. During my days as a refugee I lived from meal to meal, living off the food that various humanitarian organizations were willing to offer me. I am very grateful for that they did for me and I might not be here if it weren’t for them.
I lived alongside friends of mine from Honduras who were also headed towards the states. Their names were also on the 18th Street’s blacklist and they couldn’t stay in Honduras.
Eventually I arrived in Houston Texas where I found a coyote who was willing to take me to California where I had family.
When I finally made it to the house where my mother lived I expected to be welcomed with open arms. I was in for a rude awakening. When I gave the door three loud knocks the woman I thought to be my mother came to the door and hollered, “Can I help you boy?” I eagerly replied, “I’m your son.” She gave me a disgusted look and spat at me, “I’m not your mother. Leave or I will call the police.”
I was heartbroken. Either my mother was lying to me or my grandmother back in Honduras had given me the wrong address, and if that was true, where was my real mother?
After that I contacted an Uncle who lived in California. I told him I had nowhere else to go. He took me in on the condition that I look for a job and when that day came I wouldn’t be his problem anymore.
During this time I enrolled in Public School and to my surprise I was excelling. At this rate I could get a scholarship, go to college, and make something of myself.
I was learning how to read English, write English, but when all was going so well for me, my Uncle told me I couldn’t stay with him anymore.
And like so many other times in my life, everything came crashing down. And once again, I was homeless.