Militant poetess, dark ingrate
From what black hole did you emigrate?
From what strange galaxy of spite
Did you slither forth to curse and bite?
What absent father spawned your soul
to spread such vicious vitriol
And bring bad vibes wherever you go
In your bitter black feminist minstrel show?

My cutting tool has lost its edge.

This cutlery is rusted.

   Not because it is growing old,

but because it is growing disgusted.

Official scribblers, when I was a poet,
Whinged, driveling into an MFA void— 

Interminably.

Intolerable, as if  God were a literary milquetoast
with no poetic spine,

capable of little. An MA advisor.
If weird line breaks mean anything at all—

totally done with that.

Tepid sort of academic brown-nosing,
tedious rehash of predictable Modernism

obfuscating in rarefied tones, in some chapbook
boringly academic, same as it always was,

except offering their inferior product to no one.

And then before long, an awful new
poem is born. Cringingly dull.

God entered a welcoming ******’s womb
(as many among us have longed to do . . . )
Ascending, years later, from His own tomb
To rule and to reign from behind the blue.

       Passed over us: two thousand years—
       Short-term relief for lingering fears.

As if no big thing, these feats by our Lord.
We hear it so often our hearts grow dull.
We’ve nothing but sullen indifference toward
The One who achieved redemption in full.

       Blood on the door-posts of your heart;
       Egyptian doom: you know this part.

Theater of cruelty; His the main role.
Sad victim—until all fulfillment passed;
The playwright possessed of a blameless soul
whose angel stagehands assisted the cast.

       Now Romans marry Jewish brides;
       And Christ, the King of Kings, presides.

Ginsberg’s boomers ramble on
Micromanaging the muse
Inflicting on poetic crowds
Futile and postmodern views.

Born of crackpot meditation,
Formless poems, hippie dreams.
Useless psychedelia-lite:
Poetry as empty as it seems.

MFA meets beatnik-Buddha
(Lord, what fools these mortals be)
Fouling the Colorado air
Forcing on us weak green tea.

Punk-rock poetry is dull—
Neo-Buddhism much worse;
Please do not conflate the two
By bigging-up your boring verse.

Echoing footsteps, near Port Authority:
One bad decision enhanced by beer
Recalling the mishap in anteriority:
I needed a healthier dose of fear.

Clueless young wallet, easy prey
I bit at the apple of urban bait
I was her golden goose to waylay
All because Amtrak departed late.

What if the door had been locked in that hall?
What if the lady had used a knife?
I wish I could blame it on alcohol . . .
Thank God I escaped with my life.

Then they shall be afraid and ashamed
of Ethiopia their expectation and Egypt their glory.
                                                         ­   Isaiah 20:5

Pulsating freak anemones’
Protoplasmic revelation
Netherworld futilities:
Darwinistic thought-abortion.

Permanent Egyptian *******:
Eggman dragging Pharaoh’s ark . . .
Droning superficial sondage
Rises in black light of dark.

It’s Pharoah’s sub-Erythrean grave !
Sun Ra drones within the vault;
Atonal mode that cannot save . . .
(This is all Chad Van Gaalen’s fault.)

The last and dreadful day has come
The trumpet loudly sounds
The sleeping millions in the earth
Rise from the quaking ground!

O fearful sight! Where can I hide ?
What doleful wails I hear !
The moon turns now to ****** red,
The stars fall from their sphere !
The isles and mountains flee away,
The sun – it will not shine.
My eyes behold Christ Jesus come,
To judge the works of time !
No place to hide!

I care not now what people think
Or if they hear my cries.
My money and my pleasures, too,
Have vanished with my pride.
Down on my knees I fall, and then
Confessing Christ as “Lord of all”  –
I have no stubborn, proud heart now,
O hear the Great Judge call!
Too late to pray!

My sins are trailing my poor soul
Up to the throne of God.
Why do they follow, even here?
They will not pass His Word !
With piercing look, He views my works,
There’s nothing I can hide.
Where is one of my earthly friends?
Come! Stand here by my side!
No, now I stand ALONE!

I glance at Him, the Righteous Judge,
He says, “Depart from Me”!
I drop into the fiery pit
For all ETERNITY!
God! Give me just ONE moment now
Of time! Please hear my cry!
(Despairing thought-
‘Twas I who chose To EVER, EVER DIE!)
No more hope!

A thousand tongues could ne’er describe
The anguish that I feel,
Too late, too late now to repent,
Hell fire is all too REAL!
Forever now while ages roll,
My soul shall scream and burn.
Though torment reigns, my mind is clear –
In life, God’s love I spurned.
Forever doomed!

No water here, no light, no rest,
No love, no joy, no friend,
No children dear, no cheering song,
No hope my fate will end.
Writhing in flames, pain racks my soul,
And piercing cries I hear.
My wretched soul God sees it not –
‘Tis more than I can bear! Forgotten eternally!

Dear friend, today a loving Lord
Would save you from this fate.
Come humbly now, accept His grace
Before it is too late!


                                                 (Author unknown)

Darkness slays the sun. Descending, he dies.
To hide his glowing countenance and wait;
Until his resurrection flood our skies
With promise of a greater solar state.

Oh mourn and weep, ye gaining shades of night;
An orange sunset lingers in the west.
The trumpet sobs a reveille; the light
Is dwindling on the presidential fest.
And cypresses are sighing in their shame
For Orange Man has forfeited his game.

The technocrats and leftists, as a mass
Opposed his righteous reign with godless spite.
Not once did they relent, but dogged his ***
In jackal-packs still slavering to bite.
And yet he is deplorably adored,
Nor friend nor foe politically bored.

Vile virtue-signalers (with none to show),
Despised all those who dared support his plan;
And prideful with each whining coward blow
Confirmed themselves inferiors to the man.
Pink feminists, at odds with all that's right
Displayed themselves as ******* in the fight.

They could not stand the mention of his name.
The Globalists and other Euro-trash,
With Luciferian bankers, void of shame,
Resume their one-world plotting in a flash;
Preparing for re-set. (We wish they would
Let God reset them for their own **** good.)

So DRUMPF's Fourth ***** must sadly reach its end,
And Jared's **** wife return her shoes.
His Völkisch warriors shall no more defend
Republics that weak RINOs all refuse;
And Milquetoast Mitt, and Bush, his parting hail
Grown tired of winning, longing yet to fail.

My Einsatzgruppen uniform: no more
To wear the holy garment in my pride.
My shimmering hood and robe I now must store;
Well-pressed, I lay them tearfully aside.
My lynching rope I coil with loving care,
My Ku-Klux armband nevermore to wear.

Alas, the fascist father-figure goes;
His bigot minions, all my own, lament.
Misogynists and racists at the close
Have lost their weary way and all is spent.
He wasn't dictatorial enough;
We all grew tired of winning. It was tough.

But wait; a zephyr stirs the orange grove.
The dusk has not yet sighed its final breath:
Once more a scent of citrus wafts above . . .
Twas' premature, their festival of death.
Then TRUMP arises, grinning, from the bier
And all who wished him gone recoil in fear.

Fresh horror now the adversaries sweeps;
The trembling crypts foreshadow his rebirth.
Progressive politics despairs and weeps
While liberal dread supplants their vengeful mirth.
Then Donald rises, leering like a ghost
To fill with panic every heartless host.

Mere hopium, this horror-movie plot.
It looked like he might pull it off— but no.
Now darkness teaches light what it is not
And half the nation jeers at him to go.
Healing urged—but fake. Polarization
Shall characterize our waning nation.

Hopes of resurrection vanish with night. 
The scapegoat's legions waken from the dream
To seek nocturnal solace from the fight:
The tepid normie water's middle stream.
And Q-**** numerologists learn code.
(The rest of us just wonder what we're owed.)

Saint Orange must diminish, half-impeached;
And sunset velvet now becomes his hue.
The ballot urns of Georgia never reached;
Our judges sat to stifle what we knew.
The monoparty's monkeys steal the show;
His puppet masters hiss him. Let him go.

Now Dixie's juiceless orchards sing his dirge.
The willows hang their boughs in leafless grief . . .
Disgust for all the traitors starts to surge;
And clown-world tries but cannot bring relief.
Orange Savior's promise: undelivered;
The funeral expires—and all is withered.

Dr. Ron, a Maulana appointed
was an Afrikan king (self-anointed).
While his roots went un-vetted
his followers fêted . . .
But Kwanzaa was somewhat disjointed.

Muzzling the masses, sowing fear,
Inspiring every viral breath,
Democrat dairy-farms grow rich
Milking that Covid cow to death.

Self-contradicting messages;
Milkmaids panic, udders shrivel . . .
The coronation. Then, the reign:
Media hypes the fearful drivel.

Bigging up that Chinese chest-cold,
Karens cluck while nannies scold us;
Golden goose for global tyrants—
Chinese take-out. (What they told us.)

Pestilential testing frenzies;
Killing the patient with the cure.
Social distances grow further.
There is no god. That much is sure.

Downstream dumbed
Half-floating, benumbed

Nation as necropolis
Propagandized populace

Chattering ghosts
Flat-screened hosts

Mediation sedation
Sedition commission

Ballot ballet onstage for you:
pas de deux or pas du tout

And the Lord shall have Dominion™ . . .

(Find a rhyme for revulsion)

Orange nightmare: it's All Hallows Eve
and the Donald is poised to receive
an extended four years.
Your electoral fears
are all much worse than you could believe.

Ruthie Ginsburg is gone, and we’re glad.
Trump has found her replacement to add.
Let us look on and cheer!
The appointment is here
And progressives now drive themselves mad.

From the ACLU to the Court,
Ruth promoted the right to abort.
You may claim she was God’s
but she seemed, by all odds
more a midwife of murderous tort.

Say hello. Ginsburg’s honor is spent.
The new judge now begins her ascent .
Ruthie’s star has gone dead.
A black robe . . . or a red?
(Only Jesus can say where she went.)

        Postscript:

     Amy’s IN ! (and appointed to judge.)
     Rabid Liberal: curse not, nor begrudge.
     Are you feeling resigned?
     Your own team failed to find
     Any dirt; not a stain nor a smudge.

It's time he gets his well-merited fame;
Hard-drivin' Hunter, captured by his game.

Phu Donal Truh !
Phu Donal Truh !
We gone burn this
Mufugga DOWN.

Fo JUSTICE !!

Ruthie Ginsburg is gone, and that's sad.
Trump will find a replacement to add.
Let us look on and cheer
As appointment draws near;
The progressives now drive themselves mad.

From the ACLU to the Court,
she promoted the right to abort.
You may claim she was God's
but she seemed, by all odds
more a midwife of murderous tort.

Say goodbye. All her honor is spent.
A new judge now begins their ascent.
Ruthie's star has gone dead.
A black hole . . . or a red?
(Only Jesus can say where she went.)

The deplorable oracle Q
has the wicked unsure what to do.
And fake news can't control
What the masses extol;
The awakening rises on cue.


The crumbs have been scattered. Q spoke
what the media thought was a joke . . .
Q's disciples? Deplorable.
Quite unadorable,
spreading and massively woke.

Cryptic crumbs of plots obliquely stated;
Kernels of God’s truth, elucidated,
Pop, explode, and puff the expanding corn
To be served up salted: Patriot-****—
Deplorable decentralized dissent
Lamentable, to some, in its ascent.

Miners of uncertain deep-state rumors,
Fake news-media loathes these balding boomers.
Nervously, they watch Q’s paunchy patrons
And monitor with scorn suburban matrons:
Subverters of the state, in baseball caps . . .
A joke to most, a threat to some, perhaps.

Q’s troublemakers fly triumphant banners
And agitate, with humble heartland manners.
The movement grows and mutates through new phases,
Evolving in numerological mazes.
Where one decoder goes, they would go all,
Restoring us to Eden from the Fall.

And suddenly the Media has fits
Because some Q-****’s YouTube gets more hits
Than all their propaganda-shows combined.
(In spite of all their fake news had designed)
Thus Q has blown, through half-coherent screeds,
The cover for the wicked and their deeds.