Dust flies from the rotation of an oscillating fan
Its pale fragments coat and clothe the semblance of man.

Wake up, broken dreams, bounce forward out of stasis, collectively dropping down to the focal point of races, all they see is shades of grey, a blurry bunch of victimless prey, spectrum free skin, to make all akin.

In the midst of all that spin, they packed fiberglass in the tin. Walked out last, a fetish for the past. Drooling blood, it’s a wretched flood. Life’s passing by, wrapped in a papist lie.

The winged are envious of a capability to fall; they haven’t gone high enough to pivot and stall.

Diluted folks talk in statured forms, learning off of intelligible norms. Baptizing a culture of youth, in the blood shed by imagined truth. Cultivating a guilty conscience, in those stuck with the deceit of providence.

His name is hollow and shrewd; in fact, it’s quite misconstrued. Supposed valleys jumped in leaps and bounds, factual evidence’s show only bodies left in heaps and mounds.

Where the broken lay, you may be sure He paved the way.
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"Clouds and darkness round about him: righteousness and judgment the habitation of his throne."

Charity found in clarified thought.
Harlequins in dormitories quickly sought.
Indiscretions come with ease.
Liberated by a youthful ******.
Dilation found in most pupils.
Birthed in the hell of forgotten scruples.
Irate over nature's gift.
Renounced parentage moves in swift.
Theologians they're not to be.
Heathens, they are, as it's clear to see.

Insurrection from a parents hope.
Secured through the first ****.

Nodding off to dreams of bliss.
Organized by pots of ****.
Tempting fate with a play on chance.

A child's born through horizontal dance.

Vindication came during a failure at grace.
A look of contempt etched across a father's face.
Composure slipped through the cracks.
Adolescents and their empty sacks.
Tying nots in a diluted fashion.
Insulating them from drifting passion.
On and off they float along.
Nullified in the end by unwanted spawn.

Wake up, hot cauterized rot. I found emboldens embossed with the red lit colour of a forgotten world, holding onto leaflets of falsified thought, holding onto entanglements forged in the bowels of saran’s vast vessel timelessly caught in the meanderings of homer as he sweeps his vast oceans of godly oceanic tender towards the shores of a dilapidated Greece, beholden to the gods, bewildered for the rest as Achilles in all his might stumbles before the sand praising its opaque glory as crimson tides wash upon its shores

Billy found, what he thought to be, a wise old book.
Turns out, it had been written by a wretched crook.
Without this knowledge, Billy read it all.
While sitting down several lunches, in a high school hall.

The pages were pretty haggard.
Though, the message within wasn't staggered.
The cover and introduction had been ripped out.
Leaving its title a matter of doubt.

This was one of the first things Billy had read.
Little did he know, through its author, many were dead.
The contents of this book, filled with hate.
A diary written from behind a prison gate.

Teachers, who saw the boy reading, told Billy they were proud.
And did so in front of his fellow students, aloud.
Billy was told he was well on his way.
To a good job gifting him hefty pay.

Then, one day, Billy punched a Jew,
In a tempered assault witnessed by few.
Teachers asked about what had caused the act.
Billy held up the book as a matter of fact.

He spoke with a hatred unknown to most,
But believed it righteous as he was quick to boast.
One teacher plucked the book from his hand.
Seeing Mein Kampf, he was quick to understand.

Smacked down, in a beat-down.
Agreed to on principle.
Wet nose and numb toes.
Drowned out in principle.

Opinion is something to be treasured.
Worn thin until it's weathered.
Not left aside on desolate streets.
To be resurected by mindless freaks.

Counting hopeless dreams stripped from the sandman’s grasp
Kept waiting, left chaffing  
The restraining corset equipped on daddy’s farm breaks a clasp
Worth stating, more berating

Left in transit as thoughts collide, drifting off on that one once relied
Envision ghosts, stagnant at posts, awaiting the toast, at Greg Giraldo’s roast
A passing cloud, it’s well endowed, the screaming’s loud, daddy’s proud
Broken bones, the girl moans, the old man groans, salacious tones

Nursery bound departure of a beloved mother, swept off by a younger lover
Father time awaits the clock, chairs rock, nurturing his flock, displayed ****
In speechless rage, on a well lit stage, chalked up to age, comes an averted cage
Nothing’s going to change my world. Nothing’s going to change my world.

Beth Evans lived in a mirror, reflecting something past.
     A severed soul was the first stone cast.
Imagination was all which remained,
                                 As her flowered dress sit stained.

                Two years gone without a word
                               An adolescent voice barely heard
                          Sat in a room for days on end.
       Thoughts for which no one penned.
                                                     ...
                           Robert Glasse, 40 years of age
                                                  A man prone to fits of rage
                                           Lived off the means of foreclosed hope
                                                             No more vile than a christened pope.
          
                                   Robert Glasse knew Mr. Evans,
                                            Before the man moved on to the heavens
                          He promised to treat Beth as a daughter,
                                      To the deceased man who was her father.
                                                      ...
            Colleen Evans was a widowed mum
                                                     Who soon developed a love for ***.
                                                       Addiction came with the greatest of speed,
                                              A battle which she had to concede.

                             Rehabilitation took four long weeks
                                            Completed at Pleasant Creeks
                                      Meanwhile, her daughter had class,
                                                              So Beth was fostered by Robert Glasse.
                                                      ...

                                          For the first few days everything was fine
                                              Then Robert poured the girl a glass of wine
                                                             The haze outlasted common ludes,
                                                                    Then the girl awoke partially ****.

                                          Confused, she pushed the event from her mind.
                              Though, truthfully, it just lingered behind.
                                                      Then, one night came a trauma quite severe
Where the girl saw no choice, but to divide herself in a mirror.
                                                            ...

                                                                  Robert had planned it all along
                                                   And nothing in his mind had gone too wrong
                                                                                   Beth was shown no neglect
                                                       He had treated her with the utmost respect

                                                 He refused to see the blood drenching the bed
                                                 (That could have induced a sense of dread)
                                       He just left poor Beth twitching and battered
        And continued to pretend that nothing in life mattered.
                                                              ...

Colleen came home after four long weeks
       Finding her daughter, tears drenched her cheeks
                  Beth lay stagnant, blankly staring
                             The torture she'd been through was more than glaring

                                   Never again was a word spoke between them,
As Beth appeared in constant rem
                                 Realizing that her daughter was now nearly catatonic
                               Colleen had no problem returning to being an alcoholic.

A young preacher stands before his flock, and speaks of beliefs others mock. The man of 26 outstretched his hand, and asked his constituents to calmly stand. He spoke of God's eternal might, to a crowd whose complexion was wholly white.

Every member in attendance wore their hood, and gazed at the pulpit made of wood. Hatred and anger reigned supreme, in men whose whole intent was to demean. Eyes locked onto the man and his christened throne, preaching that blacks have no right to atone.

"All men are not created equal, some were born with a predisposition towards evil. There skin scorched an unholy black, whose sole purpose is held within a cotton sack. Do not believe those who will put them on equal footing, it is our righteous hand chosen to deliver the whooping."

The young preacher, dressed in red, spoke every falsity he had ever read. The multitudes engulfed every word, even though it was all completely absurd. In the end, an angry chorus erupted, with false speech even further corrupted. The men in their hoods of white, ran off to stir up an ancient plight.

Racism fuelled by the corrupted verse, founded by those speaking scripture in a segregated hearse. On her way to the back of the bus, death comes to any soul who tries to raise a fuss. John the Baptist watches in awe, as ****** racists remove, what they deem to be, natures great flaw.

The removal of self devised thought, leaves Catholicism an empty plot, to control any way they please, as long as one's sure to bend their knees. Cast off individual beliefs, and adopt those of archaic chiefs. Accept the principals of a nubile world, and understand colours should never be swirled.

A wandering glare catches on those who pass
And judges them based on class
Scrupulously picking every soul apart
Based on the apparel within their shopping cart.
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He speaks of intrinsic worth
And models himself on Colin Firth
Despises the idea of beauty as a single minded ordeal
And clothing worn with the inability to conceal

And yet, every woman he dates is a stick
Well versed in ******* ****.
With a mind as blank as an empty page.
And clothing better suited for a stripper's stage.
..........................................................­........................
She speaks of a lack of care for material things,
And spits in the face of wallet fuelled flings,
Says she cares only for the mind
And those who appear overly kind.

Yet, every man she dates is a ****
Worried only about gorging her on his *****
They all buy her every form of earthly delight.
And each raise their hand to her, as is a property owner's right.

False Prophets speak in shades only equipped for your ears

No need for a glass of port,
I’ll do my best to keep this short.
Since no one is of the state of mind
Required in uttering a phrase socially unaligned.

You beg for a trace of hope.
While gazing down from your knotted rope.
Pleading desperately for a swift tomorrow
Where you’ll find the trending, sorrow. (#)

Speaking in broken prose
Through the depression found in a coke filled nose.
Believing, somehow, that your nonsense is lyrically inclined
Making up for a personality forcefully resigned.

You pat each other on your weightless backs,
Recognizing the talent your breed equally lacks.
Believing you possess the artist’s form
Sheltered inside of a cultural norm.

Acting only as others want
Altruistic beliefs quick to flaunt
Borrowed Teflon from rusted pots
Gambled away in, well reviewed, slots

Placate those with tales come and gone,
Running a gambit fit for a con.
“My heart weeps tears of reflected gold.”
Nonsense repeated until bought and sold.

Frost and Blake would have turned over in their graves
As Whitman’s ruined by a collective of ****** knaves.
A block paragraph without a rhyme in sight,
Climbing on backs of the old to a worrisome height.

Those blind will cough and scowl,
Finding this truth to be quite foul.
Just look at the forgeries they produce,
And soon the odour will become quite profuse

It’s not poetry because you say it is
Such a leap of faith would make it intrinsically His.
You use the magic of empty speech.
To strive for dreams you don’t work to actually reach.

Why throw money at problems?... That's what money is for.

Counting out the seconds
Up ending comprehension
Coming forward when beckoned
Kindly teach this man a lesson