Murder, classicism, and fanaticism.
A delayed reaction, found within the
satisfaction that my nightmares are dreams
of the future.
The dreams I’ll watch manifest, while
the man I’ve become so many will soon
detest.

Each new protest is a procreative
signpost of our governments control,
but we’ll never throw caution to the
wind. Our minds are where their stagnancy
takes shape, takes hold, manipulating
our ideas, our forms of justice. Destroying
the sense of urgency that once lived
to keep an eye on them.
A fear for life burgeoning, taking new
forms, when we criticize the operations
collectively responsible for our psychotic
creation, castration.

Thinking of distant lands, leaves me
stranded, bastardized by the crazed insanity
of Uncle Sam’s need to prove his
superiority, to conquer like a parasitic
anal entrance into a world of pre-emptive
opportunity.

Grandeur larger than God, faith, or
belief in the representative symbolism
lost on the wings, of fallen virtue.
Our actions carry no stature, or grace
like that of an eagle the American mind’s
embrace. Majestic in flight, our
infamy toils like the land ridden scoundrels
we’ve been made to personify.
We merely wait for carcasses to amass,
then crawl from our holes, to pick from
the remaining rotten flesh.
No prejudice, no discretion, consuming
both young and old, while kingdom’s
cry out, “criminals!” Silently
to themselves.

I rise above it, ripping through
American fanaticism, remaining focused
on the coming dark future, a protocol
falling into position, while America’s
policy remains,
acquisition through acts of attrition,
acquisition through acts of attrition.

Simple addition has allowed me to
come to these bombastic conclusions,
but to endure the spasms of a future
spoken through me, one must first
realize what the word suffering entails,
as entrails are surgically removed by
remote controlled ACM’s.

Killing in masses, lowering popular
opinion, by redefining logic with words
carrying heavy burdens.
Like a terrorist or guerillas, how about
American patriots?

Removed from battlefield by cable lines
reporting slanted lies, about the lives
of thousands falling bullet filled into
the new desert utopian sand, while Uncle
Sam’s compatriots slobber for the next
news roll,
a new death toll,
a new death toll.

I’m full of rabid teeth, dripping black
ink into a well of consciousness that
I’m scared of too.
What I see screams, “End, roll credits!”
But I’ll try and report how I see it from
the streets of imperialist enslavement.