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| For Ron Mon... if that is his real name... |
.
.
.
So you DARE to call me crazy?
I'll debate that point's contention,
best prepare to pay a "freight" conjectured fair!
See, I'll snap your weak derision
(born of fatuous pretension!),
and return it with three folds—
One best beware!
.
We'll see who's sane when it's explored
the assumptions bigots make,
make "light" unsettled darknesses
light's loathe to mask or fake.
Prepare for self-disclosures, then
Offended folk? Be free!
"I'm not locked up in here with you;
You're locked in here, with me."
.
See, your "insult's": insufficient!
They define your small pretension—
and they frame you out, so plain,
for one to see.
Friend? Your reductionism's facile;
Though, I'm shoved upon its "edge"
...but I've resolved you're sans control;
of you I would be free!
.
See? You're not remotely "free," dim-bulb...
you're befettered by "restriction,"
impeded by that cold wet fish
of *class*... its "bitch," *tradition*!
See, "Tradition's" over-mechanized
to shore-up jealous means.
Most "ceremony" shackles us
and keeps us from our dreams.
.
Then? Who lives where
you'd know terror, friend;
who knows your secret deals?
Who knows what kids are thinking
(and that from them you shall steal!)?
...
...Who knows if washboard clouds must mean
a sound—so low—is heard;
only whales hear this music
so should live free, undeterred...
.
...For me, I'd freely die out on
the edge of airless space...
before I'd give an inch to such as you.
Your *righteous* soporific's
flatly specious in its whining...
what we've come to find
is blatantly untrue!
.
Why, it's you who's plainly crazy—
self-defined—and then what's next?
Why, it's you, a mawkish blue-nose,
who contrives some "failed test."
It's you, your foul "activity",
and your *righteousness* pretended—
to you of course that can't apply...
as hypocrites suspend it!
.
As for you, you'll get comeuppance
when the truths you hide are known.
Who, then, climbs your walls in anger,
and, then, who drags you from your home?
Who will ask those questions
which are answered from the heart?
...You shall not have your "lawyer" there
to play his scabrous part!
.
You'll stand alone, uncovered.
Who's then calling on the phone?
Who makes you pay for disrespect...
Who's taking back your bone?
.
Who's had enough of *secrets*?
Who'll make you rue your day...
that you hitch good folks to servitude,
and then make them pay your way?
.
You don't deserve the secrets
which should rain from starry skies.
You don't deserve that bounty,
and you shouldn't wonder why!
You're "content" to stumble blindly
in the shadows of your *Fathers*,
you fletch them out as heroes,
and won't listen or be bothered
if we later find them ill-advised,
aligned by specious *sight*,
a shackle on our freedoms
as obstructers of our light!
.
You contrive your *little* secret
in the hopes that you slide by—
are absolved for your indifference
so we gulp your bigger lie.
I point this out, flat mad as hell,
as I am off my knees!
My play'd be "pay the piper,"
so our children could be free!
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For this you mock/deride me,
that I see you wear no "clothes"—
that I mock your lack of "balance,"
and your ethic's full of "holes."
That the 'man' would squeeze your gonads,
and you'd toe his unjust line
to spew unjust derisiveness,
abusing all you find!
.
You'd encourage new divisiveness
while the world slowly dies.
You'd abrogate "decisiveness"
to feed your fat despised!
.
Giving in to their malignity,
you are the true depraved!
You have given in to devils!
You are wrong, unjust—unbrave!
You prosecute the innocent
to suit depraved elites;
you undercut our values
and then push us to the streets!
.
I bite an unwashed thumb at you!
I give the "secret" sign!
I hoist my middle finger
in the hopes that you're confined!
I continue my rude gestures—
I intimate contempt.
Your outrage and annoyance,
I portend, is heaven sent!
.
See, your lack of "face" emboldens me,
I am DRIVEN by your spite!
Encouraged by your bitter bile
I fight a better fight!
Your jeers, they must embolden me.
I've seen what makes you cheer!
My self-respect goes up a notch
Any time you smirk or sneer!
Your taunts? My ammunition!
Your jeers? My hand grenades!
See? Your petty—facile—comments
fuel poetic fusillades!
.
I've strength where you have weakness
'cause I understand your plight.
I hate your jealous shadows!
You hate I want more light!
.
So I fester in your kill file!
I shall not go away.
Like Jefferson's black progeny?
I'll shout the truth one day!
'Till then? I'll be so "up your nose,"
your pea-brained head distends!
Your lips will feel my scrubbing knees
and my boot heels feel your chin.
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lehmberg2002@gmail.com
www.AlienView.net
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| "I'm Your Huckleberry" |
- Yeah—too! Those you'd criticize—for all their competencies, talents, and integrities—may have feet of clay as all do. Their mistakes have been made. Their credulities have been strained. Their assumptions have been prosecuted. Their confidences have been betrayed. These are significant still if only for their consistent sincerity... even as I can't agree with them in all cases...
- ...Yet they are as GODS of absolute HUMILITY and perfect certification when compared with your boundless, if groundless hubris, tedious self-promotion, and abundant lack of wit...
- "You grovel at the feet of these, a piss-wit's toad on scabby knees..."
- See? You are especially obnoxious given that the "fruit" from your metaphoric "trees" screams "dolt," "lack-wit," "troll," "fatuous bore," and "coward"! Your production is laughably homocentric, hopelessly narcissistic—larded with pathetic arrogance and baseless hubris, and your anxious explication is only evidence of rank cowardice, intellectual and otherwise, full stop!
- Now... that's an exposing exposé worthy of an exposed exposure, eh? Still, entirely lost on you, I suspect. That's what reflex reductionism will do for you: enslave you to a misapplied Occam... See, it remains that sometimes it is required to "complicate the hypothesis," you klasskurtxian swine! Occam never ruled that out contrary to what you might have believed. He said, "not without necessity"! Necessity commands!
- Step off, there's a lad! Then pound cement past a prolapsed pore. There, that's better. Know too: "I'll be your huckleberry...," and strike the sun were it to provide your offense! It's. My. Job!
- You know who you are. Bunched up, hopelessly inbred, and mutually supporting, one metaphoric or literary grenade gets you all! Read on.
