I am from a Good Samaritan,
a cesarian birth.
I am from a green thumb, born

into garden gloves;
my mother’s leather hands.  
I am from Hyacinths and Begonias,

from Chrysanthemums,
and Black-eyed Susan’s.
I am from the river,

struggling against the white waters,
her hands supporting my underside.
I am from those summer evenings

spent snatching fireflies from the stars;
our cheeks glowing in their radiance.
I am from the dirt beneath fingernails,

the airless August sun,
and a long day on the trowel.
I am from pulled weeds, and those

precious things blossomed
and grown too soon.

what of nature is eaten by the mouth of man,
      so too eats the genitalia of
woman with as much ferocious gluttonisation -
   no serpent of eden care more
for the reality that's bound to tempt the choice:
either know or be known -
     below the standard equator of the body
as the point of disembowelment and Cesarian birth...
   spewing toward a heap of two tonnes
of sardines with a stench that can't classify
**** for the scent of strawberries...
               proof of solipsism? a man sitting
on a toilet for an hour with a newspaper...
   disproof of solipsism? a man easing a **** out
on a crowded train... ****** expressions?
piquant... yonder! the lustless ******! or what
would be said when the gyroid was out of place
when anything concerning sine and cosine
      reflected the one plausible coordinate of
tangens... namely 0... so in whatever algebraic
form interweaving sine x with cosine z + + +...
you'd still get the tangens either side exponential,
and your own summary, bound to that
infamous biography of never reaching fame...
     and that myth of Atlantis and the serpent there?
  more like an octopus that fiddled and slobbered
the **** than said: of this fruit an addition
to your "natural" duality - to encourage your number,
replacing dualism with a dichotomy...
           rites of passage for the ceramically fainting skinned -
ivory and squint, then
           diddly-and-piglet-or-flamenco-skinned-squat -
wide-eyed... or listening to how the Bulgars settled
in Europe and became ethnically cleaned with
     neo-Cyrillic... or as some say: proto-Greek revisionism...
       some words are familial... i can actually attest them
a phonetic synonymous that's familiar to the ear...
but the little words... remain with origin bound,
rather intact... only nouns get ***** to assimilate...
it's the little uh huh and um and om and
      so many in between that never reach cleansing
a tongue fully...
                  to be said: kinda slavish,
             archaic ***... *** that also said:
Commodus was one of the 5 good emperors...
    and was falsely depicted in gladiator (2000)...
and the *** invented stirrups to shoot arrows with
while quickly moving and suggesting a Mongol to come
along with the perfected idea of that: and pure stink
   of forgotten hygiene... memorised by
        the inflamed library of Baghdad and the pyramid
                 of Iraqi skulls...
the Romans made use of the calvary by employing
only eunuchs in their ranks... well... given no
stirrups... you're bound to make scrambled eggs
   along the ping-pong gallop...
       could ever a modern woman become a Helen?
perhaps a yacht might sail... instead of a thousand worries
to contest her husband's pride: a thousand quid...
  but it would never be such a gesticulation for
making worth of a woman to discredit a man...
            Kant said: i'll marry, only if i marry what i am
already married to... which is a transcendence of
what a man usually is married to... a woman...
  a man can marry his work...
                  it's either:
a. arbeit macht frei... or it's
                                   b. frau macht knecht...
well... it's sad... does it matter whether it's a universal
truth that has no guiding concern for
particular applicability and therefore a non-statistical
verification that splinters off a pathos of
  idealism all too readily accepted?
          and slogans avoid the details, i.e.
a. work power free
                          work empowers toward a freedom...
     is that the irony of suggesting
                                 that the Nubians built the pyramids
    and weren't the original air-coolers with their
   duck-feather fans and that the Jews profited from this?
as in
          b. woman power slave
                   women empower toward slavery...
sure... patted on the back and constantly bridging
gaps and licking lesions of man's struggle...
                       work "sets you" free...
                      and in that "      " bubble you can also have:
sets your apart from...
       sets you against....
                                  settles... the notion of freedom...
                   sets freedom... against you...
                                     so many variations of slogan grammar...
      well, akin to the 20th century shogun snail whipping
you into: ya, mein herr...
                                   and of course, there are the lucky few
that sorta revel in what otherwise are told to do:
            let me shove that remote control up yer ***,
and i'll make it less painful... i'll smear some lard
around your **** and you start pampering a bottle
of johnson & johnson baby powder...
      for a quest into averting the extinction of snow.

Yesterday.... Like the Beatles my troubles are here yet seem so far away...
Blood from my body and eyes blinded my visions of cesarian executions that brought light and a beacon of hope that's here to stay..

The year before, Mother Nature ripped my Afro centric other me from the abyss of an ovarian society...

Yet healed the once mentally enslaved legacy, holistically increased that same evil capital into tranquility...

And like an eagle soaring over the highest peaks of hope came to be in 1983...
Shocked the wintery mix with Egyptian ice cold veins and Greek ****** proclivities...

And though the vices that sinned my birth swayed my lens
Wings of stoic proportions haloed to an ascended degree, I contend

Oh I believe...in yesterday...

Abortion


I am autistic

complicated by dyslexia,

a difficult child (perhaps).


But was I breach birthed,

Cesarian, or premature?


Did I have an over sized

head?


Why did you say to me

when I was still a child

that you wished I was

never born?


I just put flowers on

your grave.

i try to swim out
but the cesarian sky
opens up
and pours me
back into your body.

where all the dancing flowers
with all the great knowlege
bind me
and keep me
a secret.

i see the fire
off in the field
and i blend it
with the beauty.

it runs to me
and teaches me
my name.

i feed it
as it pours
its flesh
into my mouth.

and my soul
comes pouring out.

"The Refused Part Two"

We must hold the lines
No more drills
No more compromise
When the worlds barrage us  
With lightning and drive-bys
Cesarian messiahs
Nations deified
We defy
All of their abuse
Stand tall
All The Refused

History stammers
When truth is hammered
By humanistic holograms
Facts edited for one hundred grand
They'll impose new realities
Blessed *******
Proud plurality
Invitations to kiss their wrists
Pray to the state
Silently submit
BUT!
The faithful must not sign their truce
Stand in the Lord
All the Refused

We know
WE KNOW where our answers are
Rightly divide
Pull apart
Each lawless judge
Each merciless czar
The pawns of nations
Built by oligarchs
To tip the scales of justice
And sew sin in the yard
Stay grounded in truth
Renovated children
All The Refused

There is no glory
In their lesser laws
Secular cures
Palaces of straw
Night and day
They claim to save
With the pagan ways
Of their savior state
God becomes the institution
With idolized science
And cultural revolutions
All we can do is remain astute
Through faith in Christ
All the Refused

We the Refused
To promote perfect union
Cast down the witchery
Of humanistic confusion
Their messianic state
Their Socialist ways
Their lust for dominion
And unending praise
We cling to Jehovah
We sing the Evangel
We pray each day
For the demise of tyrannical scandals
What else can we do
But deny revised history
And fabricated new?
Train your minds to study Truth
This is war
All the Refused