What have you done to this time of ours?
What mix of stinking wretchedness have you left us?
What in the bedraggled bottom of hell were you thinking?
You, with your godforsaken pride and lifeless eyes
With soiled thoughts planted like a rock garden,
The weight of the next idea holding down the last.
You don't understand your deplorable sins upon humanity,
You with your excuses pinned under stones of hatred.
Goddamn you. It is too late for your trite regrets,
Our hopes scrape the granite of immovable statues
Like moments in a famished dream of peace without end.
We call to thee to look back at your wanton wreckage,
To acknowledge this; our complicit suffering,
To grieve with us, our countries bereavement.
The martyrs of your making are built with straw,
Like the unholy
kakashi, arms spread like Jesus,
Prepared for nothing but a murder of crow.
Death is the bitter fowl scraping at your sockets,
The harbinger tearing through your thankless nights
Like deadly shrapnel scurrying across your lawn
To mow you down. What should we do with such a gift?
The heroes tombs are all prepared, waiting for them to fall
And you sit there with a smugness reserved for kings,
Kings, whose empire’s have come and gone, who ride
Defiantly upon a beast carved from the same stone.
© 2008 mrp/tpmWatch the Movie - KakashiRolling along "F"...
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Posted: January 12, 20071:00 a.m. Eastern
The week that was provided interesting examples of how desperate and pathetic liberals have become.
Their lust for political power, after having suffered one election defeat after another, has become so great that they don't seem to be trying too hard to hide the ugly aspects of liberalism. Now that they've won control of Congress, liberals feel emboldened to reveal their true selves.
So you needn’t be troubled, Melanie.
There is no silence in the tooth of horror,
Only bottomless gnashing and writhing
As your noisy maw yammers its own execution.
Those that came before you had a cunning beyond.
They hunted the succulent jade of world peace
While you, in a shadowy globe, conceive defeat
At its charitable hand and see war as stillness;
Peace within your sinister and ailing abhorrence.
There is no silence in this; your bitter flesh of hatred.
You’ve fed upon the flavor of this warring infection
Until your tongue tastes sweet honey, not death.
You cannot be silenced with such dreary senses.
You cannot be hushed or shut up. Your infection
Is too great for those who’ve devoured your birth.
Yours is the vigor of the beast that roots upward
Collapsing the soil which would bring you truth.
Peace is the force of the boulder upon your tusk
As you root `round within yourself for nourishment
Digging past the rancid ooze of hypocrisy and murder.
There is no silence in this; your bitter flesh of hatred
Writhing deep in the festering corpse of your silence.
Copyright © 2007 mrp / thepoetryman