The princes of men have always lived In fear—without this secret, nothing In history makes sense. Though Since men must outnumber princes, Here is never a purely irrational fear, In the greenhouse of the high mind It flowers wildly. It throws off Grand fruits and petals of fantasy,
Your poems seem more universal today. I am reading the new Robby Krieger autobiography, guitarist for The Doors. Jim Morrison told the other three Doors to write a song, they needed more songs for their first album. Robby asked Jim, "what should I write about?" Jim said to write something universal. Robby thought, earth, air, fire, water. "I'm going to write about fire!" This became their first hit single, "Come on Baby Light My Fire."
Tolerance
Your poems seem more universal today. I am reading the new Robby Krieger autobiography, guitarist for The Doors. Jim Morrison told the other three Doors to write a song, they needed more songs for their first album. Robby asked Jim, "what should I write about?" Jim said to write something universal. Robby thought, earth, air, fire, water. "I'm going to write about fire!" This became their first hit single, "Come on Baby Light My Fire."
Careful with that axe, Eugene.
Hey, my mind is so open my brain fell out!
The hate upon his octarine,
inscrutable as it is,
inexplicable as it is,
have too, their curator's... curators.
Though having given up power
to suggest the hand of creation,
(yes even against the hyper-jews
and their constellations painted against the tile floor)
they have what the prince cannot;
(no, not yet another hierarchy)
silence.
(of that)
The wisdom of it no doubt fully realized —
in his braaaaain,
nevertheless his more beautiful world,
demands its collisions.
The hidden tongue of hidden hates;
bear their full form before those
whose only sound
is the pachinko of the pigmen.
What autistic demon would stand
enchanted with such ugly cadence?
The prism of quiet awaits its sustenance
of music's rape.
hungry is the purgatory, to in trade,
offer the prince back his taciturn antenna.
My Feinian inheritance sees not Fat Butchers but Black 47 thin and they don’t know how skinny they are, yet.
The Princes apply their foreign policy as domestic policy.
We shall learn to fawn upon our betters as they had to fawn to be better. Scrape, bow, fawn, grovel. And lie.
We shall learn to love the lash as the Syrians, Libyans, Iraqis and the Juche learn to love the lash of Big Pronoun Xshe Princes, Drama Queens all.
Things falling apart and the center are The Princes, collapsing today “supply chain” tomorrow the food supply.
They will not tolerate us, they mean to Erase our Whiteness ~ this will now include the truculent Latinx~ the new Reagan Democrats.
Bienviedos naturamente Falangismas say I! Too late for the Princes to see their own folly, although to each man his own dirty work he must be true.
We must appeal to our ancient god and the women keening~ oh come Captain Moonlight!
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