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  • "The Second Coming" Poetry Competition

    "The Second Coming" Poetry Competition


    http://whitenationalist.org/forum/sh...=2995#post2995
    http://www.arguewitheveryone.com/ent...mpetition.html
    http://www.thephora.net/forum/showth...300#post682300
    http://stumbleinn.net/forum/showthre...832#post168832
    http://www.pastorlindstedt.org/forum...c.php?f=7&t=67



    I've always thought that William Butler Yeat's "The Second Coming" was the best political poem of the 20th Century, if not all time. I'll post it below. But what I want to do is to have a sort of competition for best dark poem for the 21st Century, full of doom and gloom and a wanting to whine about chaos overtaking the world. A sort of poetry competition.

    Let's review the standard first. I have my own entry, of course.

    Pastor Martin Luther Dzerzhinsky Lindstedt
    Church of Jesus Christ Christian/Aryan Nations of Missouri


    The Second Coming

    TURNING and turning in the widening gyre
    The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
    Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
    Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
    The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
    The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
    The best lack all conviction, while the worst
    Are full of passionate intensity.

    Surely some revelation is at hand;
    Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
    The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
    When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
    Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
    A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
    A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
    Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
    Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
    The darkness drops again; but now I know
    That twenty centuries of stony sleep
    Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
    And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
    Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?



    Pastor Lindstedt's Web Page
    Pastor Lindstedt's Archive Page & Christian Nationalist Forum

  • #2
    The Second Cummin'

    The Second Cummin'



    http://whitenationalist.org/forum/sh...ted=1#post2996
    http://stumbleinn.net/forum/showthre...746#post168746
    http://www.arguewitheveryone.com/ent...ml#post1053435
    http://www.pastorlindstedt.org/forum...=67&p=176#p176


    by W.B. Lindstud/e.e. fips

    Wherein i tear an solipsistic a-theist whigger pussy a whole new asshole

    And never get over masturbating theysselfs
    build into whatever some baal-priest says
    the true religion of the congenital savage
    yet yap about submission.

    forgiving your brother. who is that brother?
    worship of nerthius, whose pregnant female sacrifice
    drawn by an ox-cart with seven or nine pregnant heifers
    ended up in a sacred grove wherein all the girleys,
    two and four legged, had their throats slit on the altar?
    king yourself.

    A sparrow buffeted by the winds who’d seen a small hole
    in a great hall
    and found shelter.
    not jewdayo-churchianity, baal-priests, beaner mamzers
    returned to vomit and eat back up that which made
    …the first sickness!
    you would make of jews super-mamzers and not
    infested jewdayo kikeshit.

    seek putup creaTards . . . . or violent maniacs like myself.

    eunuchoid whiggers right to the chute leading up to the jewlag.
    first to alienation, and then into a death camp…
    or to bathe in the ichor of kikesses.

    newbie quack fresh from nut skrule /
    a-theist twat jewr solipsistic whigger pussy
    hiding to jewstify cowardice

    . . . . or my forefathers killing off every red nigger they could find
    by any cheap means possible.


    Pastor Lindstedt's Web Page
    Pastor Lindstedt's Archive Page & Christian Nationalist Forum

    Comment


    • #3
      Don't let Baalzepup pull an Omen 3 on you.

      Don't let Baalzepup pull an Omen 3 on you.



      http://whitenationalist.org/forum/sh...ted=1#post2997
      http://stumbleinn.net/forum/showthre...850#post168850


      Originally posted by O'Zebedee
      Right now he is curled up next to Roxie, like a grandchild used to do. When I get into bed, Buddy the Poopy Dawg then wants to snuggle up against my lower back and I have to push him down to my knees under the covers, wherein Little Cujo snarls. Be it grandkids or poopy dawgs, I always wake up racked up if something curls up to my lower back.

      Baalzepup is presently reaming away at Bamzer the Sorta-Mamzer's bunghole, doing the high colonic, munching on hemmaroids, and doing the rotor-rooter action, for which Bamzer is NOT grateful.

      I think my new oafishul portrait will become an Internut icon -- people staring back at Buddy/Lil' Cujo/Baalzepup, trying to out-stare Baalzepup -- and failing. I even made Mutant$permFront. A minority there wants me unbanned and unjewlagged.

      Ever see the demon dog in Omen 3? Don't stare too long into Baalzepup's eyes, especially if you own a shotgun, is all I can say.

      Pastor Martin LD Lindstedt CJCC/AN

      03-20-2009, 12:31 AM

      Pastor Lindstedt's Web Page
      Pastor Lindstedt's Archive Page & Christian Nationalist Forum

      Comment


      • #4
        Stupid Tardds I Have Known

        Stupid Tardds I Have Known


        http://whitenationalist.org/forum/sh...ted=1#post2998
        http://stumbleinn.net/forum/showthre...149#post169149


        Originally posted by 'tardd
        http://stumbleinn.net/forum/showthre...121#post169121

        Poetry is for fruits. I would know -- I'm such a gay 'tard. :gaytard:
        T odd the 'Tardd, you remind me of one whigger who used to be in my Army platoon who thought he was such a smart little tard. He was being 'Section 8ed' out of the Army for unfitness. He had only one more day in the unit and then he run his mouth off to a Masty type named 'Tank' because he was built like one and had the attitude of a tanker in an artillery unit. The arm of Tank shot out and he dragged the little whigger tard into his room and with his little posse of two others proceeded to slowly beat the dogshit out of the 'Tard.

        The rest of us heard the yelps and screams for help, but none of us liked the little bastard, and after being assured that he would live through his 'lesson' to be on the flight to the world (we were stationed in Crailsheim Germany) we went about our business. The next morning the Tard shambled to the outside door and was lying on the sidewalk with a bunch of lumps and bruises, a bit of blood, and the battalion commander was walking by and asked, "Soldier, are you all right?" The Tard could have narked out Tank, but figured, correctly, that this would mean being in a unit in which everyone wanted to kill him and it would mean him not getting on the Freedom Bird, so he told Col. Dimsdale, the post commander, that he was fine, just resting from accidently falling down the steps, and that he would be dressed in his Class A's directly.

        And he got on the Freedom Bird. Tank got kicked out of the Army after failing his third piss test after a vacation in Amsterdam where he screwed and hashed himself silly.

        You, Tardd, are exactly the same sort of stupid asshole that I recollect that tard as being. Mouthy and stupid, and unable to learn anything regardless of ass-whupping applied.

        Pastor Martin LD Lindstedt CJCC/AN
        Sp4 (Retired) C Btry 2d Btn/42d Field Artillery (Lance) 1981-83

        03-21-2009, 02:12 PM

        Pastor Lindstedt's Web Page
        Pastor Lindstedt's Archive Page & Christian Nationalist Forum

        Comment


        • #5
          nundesiderata

          nundesiderata

          by fips



          http://www.whitenationalist.org/foru...ted=1#post2999


          Go placidly amid the noise & haste,
          better yet, BE the noise and haste.

          Be on good terms with all persons
          as far as you can throw them, especially fools with money.

          Speak the truth plainly & clearly to all others, even the dull and
          ignorant, until you are certain they are utterly useless.

          When you are not among men of reason,
          it is better to convince them to kill each other.

          Make use of loud & aggressive persons to
          broadcast your own radical views.

          If you compare yourself to others,
          you may become bitter; for always there
          will be greater persons than yourself.
          This is a good thing;
          as bitterness makes you more practical and realistic.

          Keep a strong interest in your own career, however
          humble; but if you don't enjoy humility for its own sake,
          learn to exercise yourself in greater spheres of action,
          By going postal with a series of banned weapons.

          What do we now know knowing now and how?
          Once you know something, it is yours forever;
          it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
          If it then leaves you, you may kill it.

          Many persons strive for high ideals; some thrive, and some starve.
          There is no good reason to starve
          when you can steal from those thriving with low ideals.

          Resist aging and death with every resource available to you,
          But help your enemies both age and die.
          Be a precocious waster of their time, energy, and their lives.

          Nurture skills of self-defense. Be a skunk if necessary.

          Distinguish between illusion and reality, between emotion and fact.
          There are some things you can sit on, and others you can shit on.

          The universe neither cares about you
          nor recognizes any more obligation to you
          than it did the Dodo.

          Give yourself only to someone
          you know now will always deserve you.

          Whatever your labors & aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life,
          you must create your own insanity and secret hurtfulness.

          Be careful. Strive to be happy. Schtick them, shoe them, shoot ‘em, stick ‘em.

          Postpartumscript: All the people are fools some of the time, some of the people are fooled all of the time, and all of the people all the time imagine they cannot be fooled, or as Brooklyn-born Carole (“Klein”) King wrote for the Crystals: “He hit me, and it felt like a kiss”.

          03-23-2009, 07:36 PM

          ____________________________
          I am The Librarian
          http://whitenationalist.org/forum/
          http://www.pastorlindstedt.org/forum/

          Comment


          • #6
            Very Rough Fragments

            Very Rough Fragments

            by fips




            http://www.whitenationalist.org/foru...ted=1#post3001

            A stone holding its own
            crammed down the throat
            of some whigger once-worshiping negritude,
            now just a whore with a broken head,
            and a heart exposed beyond the ribs of Adam,
            a screaming box resonating with sticks,
            tuned to the same deep note,
            then silenced by a filling of burnt dog butt fur.
            Deep rolling world,
            now dead to them.

            Say, you are the Man
            who carves a rib bone into a hook and uses it
            through the jaw to hang trophies for others to find.

            There the whole entire full width of my entrenching tool
            entered the whore’s raw pulp,
            the whore's paper peeling away in sudden sodden rustgush.
            Then I sought to flatten, with repeated blows to, his pride.

            I entered the whore's room and waited for another
            This time I will distract the whore
            with broken teeth and
            eyelids unable to fully close;
            crack rocks in the spine,
            and hang a whore's lips from the ceiling fan

            Then was a garden of rope, silk, tight,
            for them poofters to enjoy as they die.
            soft fabric perfumed like violets,
            to cover the stink of their endings.

            A Chosenite, sunk in her bath, submerged, lost
            in soap bubbles now bubbling pink and hot red.
            Jiggle-juggle.

            Let them all read the inscription in my eyes,
            walking though their minds
            spending these nights awaiting the dark
            as the kiss of morte slips from my lips,
            a balsam for all lives not worth living.

            Finally, I sought the hedge round the Paradise garden,
            passed my fingers through,
            and felt God’s Secret Breath forced into my weak lungs
            as I became immortal in murder, knowing
            shadows slip effortlessly together and
            every seed of one thing is given away to another,
            yet allays remains part of ourselves.

            The earth calls suck to their cleav’d flesh, that
            They might all sleep forever under the shed
            in the Paradise Garden;
            Wet remains turning to black stain like earth rocks that burn in winter fireplace.

            The weight of a spirit with no soul is flyweight.
            As I look for a Chinaman to do the filthy laundry.

            03-26-2009, 02:47 PM

            ____________________________
            I am The Librarian
            http://whitenationalist.org/forum/
            http://www.pastorlindstedt.org/forum/

            Comment


            • #7
              Revenge

              Revenge

              by fips



              http://www.whitenationalist.org/foru...ted=1#post3002


              First, as a ganging youth)

              He broke his fists on his face and on his mirror in frustration at the painfulness of his smallness, youngness, powerlessness, and passion wildness, not yet ready for expansiveness, wholeness, godliness, holiness, glorified greatness, or powertruth, but neither yet broken hopeless, brittle with meanness, cold and old, under aloneness and deadliness of dread. He joined with others…

              Brake not your oath, sworne on father’s hammer, or become filled with pigmess and rot, ewig wanderer of the waterless places. This is a hard and bitter time, anxious time, we are one, we are many, we are many being one, one being many, but yet unlearned.

              So let us go to their tombs together; we shall open, reach our hands into graves, having broken the seals, opened the scrolls, and pissed on them all, smear wet feces over dried faces, stuff shit in dead mouths, eyes, ears, noses, and fight with their dust.

              Second, growing in pain)

              In the dusk of dawn, I rest to think of how many agonies we can yet bring to their House, making some of them rage to die. What will come to me, at such a dawn, when my roots seek health, my branches green leaflife? That there is no safe place left on the face of this earth, beasts having o’ertaken, their un-natural wilderness invading mind and body, home and soul. This is the way they sacrifice their goats today, with houses and towers collapsed, bridges washed out, cities consumed in fires, cockroaches and rats forming armies; Most have forgotten how to speak, for a final hour has passed, and they remain grunting feral…

              See the half-real lives of the devils: how they wail, bite, venomous, with frothy lips…O bitter little JWorm, you imagine there is a whole universe in each of your rings of flesh, a universe in the manner you burrow to Earth to make unhealthy soil, and one great universe in each of your defecating actions, but we imagine many ways to end this blackblood and speechgas.

              I have wild eyes, seen on the edges of my teeth. I have smoke and eels in my heart and sharks in my fingers and toes, all great and curling. Of this tiny vision, buried beneath daily habit, encased in cultural cement, bound with chains, and thrown overboard…this the world now, but one day its power of insight may yet help we escape, arise from the depths, and coat the face of the earth in white lightning and black thunder.

              Third, in the struggle)

              Strangers, drifters, hiding in plain sight, dig deep into ugly things that stare up at you and squirm, now seeing that you are both tooth and claw…The power of the horns, great seeing creatures in the mind, stab hard at eyes that could not see, rip and tear Sarah and Torah that cannot speak, twist the flesh to dough and churn their blood to butter and the milk of “mercy” for lives no longer worth living.

              Break those hand bones, break those wing bones, break those arm bones, ribs, the tiny ear bones, the giant leg bones, you shall fly no more, I have cut your strings, broke your wings and singed your feathers with fire, have gutted you and baked your meat, I have cut off your head, I shall eat of it and become one with you, little self-made god. I have broken your hold forever.

              I am angel flesh, angel wing and bone and feather and gut and meat, I am angel eye, seeing all, I, angel voice, speaking truth with sonority…

              He had turned, he opened, he closed, he opened his heart to the wide mysteries, he opened his mind to the subtle and gentle mysteries, he closed his mouth, he was being opened, he was being closed, he stabbed, he sacrificed – see his chopped meat…

              He sunned himself in the heavens awhile, walked gardens beneath riverflow, and flowed with the rivers:

              “We shall be thunder-sons, seeing the unclean world in a new way, pelting the earth from the skies with viles of disease for their guts to jew and churn over.

              Plagues from angels.

              We’ve been here before, in these skies before; we’ve sent down lightning bolts before, this all happened a long, long time ago”…

              This is my testimony, where are your demons now? O glad moon, what are the depths of the void but that valley of Morlocks and Gehenna from which none can escape, where there is no light but the constant fires, that place we journey through in our sleep, where reason cannot prevail, but only heart.

              Let earth swell fat over their gaseous decay, with the weight of all truly living things pressing down. Their meat pours and blood gushes from the mouth, an endless spring, endless fountain of racelife. Drink the blood of majesty! The cup overfloweth. Water us with it.

              Finally)

              We are at the tombs, among the dust, as flower petals open with the blood of the dawn, Earth patiently awaits its healthy rain, this the glory of the morn, sunset so much more than the blink of an eye away.

              This is a sweet time, calm time, we are one, we are many, we are many being one, one being many, having learned this is great white atrocity, and mastery over atrocity, for the persecution of our future is worse than slaughter…

              We are made of urges through and through, wildness and lust, crudity and cruelty, passion, we are dreams of glory, having seen these clouds below us before; we are the waters passed from father to son through the mother, and we are the murdering angels…

              This place is a secret wilderness, I shall open it up to and for you, come with me to this place of our ancestors, remain in the shadows awhile and drink of the stilled waters of pools in caves that haven’t had current or wave for centuries, yet are refreshed and new from deep springs, so deep in history.

              We may see many terrors there, but shall in the end know such loveliness.

              O, let us go…



              And there were 50 beers to choose from.

              --------------------------------------------------------------------------------

              There is, however, a lacked of proposals in race
              collective lack’d of…

              Since several years some d?sertification
              development of lifestyle, the life old or later there is
              against rich.

              Some here come the summer
              What can be done to discovering a passion?

              It is a green area, where it's good live.
              Far fum furnaces downtown.

              And I can not walk and take for young in July.
              Most games balls remain open.
              To think about what you do throughout the next year, and that!
              The record of this number 2 shows leisure social, cultural and sporting.
              Pent by the associations of its nature.

              While they do not live all the neighborhood,
              but attend, enjoy, know and do awareness.
              They are old (more than centenarians for secular or companies bowls).

              Creation more recently, can be loaded
              by social tasks or simply be invested
              the mission given them by their members.

              They in are all cases one, the important in lifearea, contributing cohesion, adhese.

              We give you appointments

              Later culture. The amateur starting informed or more may have the difficulty to choose from many practices,
              approaches and different places, interpreting text author.

              Let you tell
              Come listen to stories.
              Raisin in the street are attached to this art
              Oral individual open to all small and big ears
              And if the pen itch you…

              Library for all you looks close to home.
              We welcomes you to enlightenment
              musical toddlers to training groups of musicians,
              to Grape Street.
              Join the dance
              Dances of the World with Folk Cr?tins
              the rendezvous fans packed, waltz, scorpione, andro, etc.;
              In the same.

              secular rock hosting a course in its walls.
              Ray image and sound, has recently internally and open soon outside.
              You can try your chance…

              Several structure offer this functionality and essentiality toward children and youth.
              Often mistaken for a simple and center, its goes much further…they can accommodate usually and collectively.
              Families can enjoy of aid, to more than 12 of based on their needs to and from their abiklities.
              This is a first approach working over 16 years.
              Mostly to work of collective interest to achieve a personal different devices

              Do you know the Cauldron, the Manu, the ointment Rigollo?
              Let you count Saint-Etienne
              Secular and the Nativity.
              The adventure is adventure
              Adapted thematic stays
              wood, wildlife, water…
              all ages and all levels, with
              modes of operation varied ranging frome stage.

              For its part, the workshop of creation, for those who love their hands to the pulp or trying to decorate with way hot cool blood.
              You can also introduce you to different techniques applied or deepen. De creation is, of course, not left with, among others, of painting on their _____ and _______.

              You have a small English and want to the oral side!

              The offer is important to this missing, felt by young people and children.
              Two kourses of gymnastics: heating and outdoor quality;
              It also stays in winter stay.
              You pull or you tip?
              If you bitten or bowls not lacking
              At a time when often a piecemeal fashion throughout
              population age important to find.
              Well safe for children, but parents…

              For the game, whether of chance, logic, strategy, construction, imitation, etc., is a trainer estrainger meanings, personality and schizoidization.

              Everyone has freedom of treat
              Drag when same request
              The long game the bowls told the long
              with thirteen thirty companies in the spaces
              left free in the cemetery, coal pits, or the back of a bar
              …or a friendly.

              Amost all proposed alongside other balls gradually, resulting groups of companies
              A jack to play
              No agents of mediation

              Needen to define the type to be installed priority, the most suitable concerned. The choice was widely covered
              on a city-stage.

              About neighborhood ties to Treyvs and beef, it appears
              they are open to time periods (how).

              A city is a stage play
              Austerisks sown refer to this Kezako in Proven?al
              engaging each partner to the duration of a plan in a palm under a palm.

              It allows the implementation operation of heavy urban.
              To improve (allay!) the living conditions of living,
              Led from the start with the people, the GPV is
              competing intavenous to has impact on rapid,
              everyday, life.
              Whereabouts can be grouped services too far -
              Saturnism. Poisoning.

              trips and projects for inclusion, professional!

              Most companies of balls,

              A oriented towards public individuals.
              A local street of Ferdinand yoga, sweet balance.
              Accompaniment leisure has created the place
              Compositions mortuary,

              We seemed to lent themselves to
              Identification of perennial ‘borhood.
              What is the balance?

              The year 2002 was that studies and diagnoses shown the islets matter most to the way people see fit.

              Thee moves also Street of Eternity.
              What other projects GPV?

              The slums call Paul will be razed.
              A study on among others become the use of
              premises and sectors.
              One project talked a lot, which is derived.
              Some very reluctant to this proposal,
              now buried,
              passage by a portal worthy of a prison. Airlock.

              Nevertheless, this operation very heavy, to last for three to billion four years,
              It is a pity film for the stage, playing the game in any
              simplicity.

              The giant sculpture, totem collective
              ephemeral, composed of clay
              decorated with elements of escarpin
              dance shoes skiing
              modeled (animals, people) to
              this strange building.

              This achievement proposed and led by the young
              plastic ceramic Bruyas has had a very wind
              very violent and of unknown origin blown on the hill.

              Principles of its polity: nothing but revolutionize in consultation conpletely considerably simplifying the administrative burden with a financial allocation fairer
              father.

              Premises dangerously v?tustes,
              Street of Eternity.
              Do not confuse!
              Another Hill!

              Bearded since 1950, refired since 2,000.
              Anti tags, etc.

              such pleasure by children in the day.
              For the third consecutive year,
              the whole area has bin bit by effervesced
              An event annual moved slowly.

              Bulk…cleanliness.

              It has virtually opened the years, with whom she is
              strongly linked.
              Heat promoted widely animations
              External. There was much children throughout the afternoon,
              for dinner.

              Ball, hosted by the Eleven sit there and
              music.

              130 paellas been used and some have not been sighted
              …be served naw.

              In the windows of neighborhood
              These sumos suaient under the sun!

              The minister, local elected are not exhaustive and may
              subgect to change, please.

              An agenda for a fairly lean as everbeen.

              Competition balls friendly societies Faubourg
              Doors open Spiral
              A week to touch everything,
              both actors and beneficiaries

              It meets the needs food aid, equipment
              housing, aid to removals.

              In 2002, Coffee pioneered all, beyond appearance…
              food.

              Animation and trade there are an increasing.
              Opens permanently widely its numberous doors

              Smail, Nagui, Souka?na, and Jules lent their ears for a trip around the land proposed
              peace, hate, jealousy
              pleasure, listening pleasure

              Older pursue its action for the good
              aging.
              Transfrom the look at the advanced age
              reflection on this time sled freed fred

              Participant to remain master of its choice
              through actions of reflection, Re-fract! Re-collect!
              as part of Space retired.

              Stretching memory,

              In welcoming homes
              in order to forge the link

              It is present

              Army of Hi

              listening

              social servility, it does not claim that title, but
              are also values.
              Social stephanotis, the person in difficulty on the
              search for efficiency!

              The encounter between the desired day
              is increasingly clay showcase

              It seems that are emerging,
              under the GPV, perspectives
              mogglement in this field…

              Showcase obscura.
              Art'M dummies vitrine (women, men and children) for exposure.

              two months on the street Raisin.
              They mouths recreated earth characters

              25 On the menu: many passages of owl
              frog, lion, elephant, rabbit, crocodile,
              frundle, King and Queen

              An idea that its way…
              Why a reflection and proposes actions

              This idea has since walked in spirits…

              Passage rising
              to steers
              place

              O 50 100 m
              Gardens and public green spaces
              Gardens,
              brownfields green for private use ...
              Wooded or forested areas
              Gardens
              From the air, it is our green
              Hill, despite Passementiers!

              Often misunderstood wanderers, they
              are very nummerlust but invisible from the
              Street located in the heart

              But of course many Live confess to walk and enjoy the
              quiet sinuosities of our Father
              Lachaize stephanotis.

              Monuments
              space again accessible.

              The esplanade of the cemeteryl!
              The original (and still) Space Health Heath
              inconstructible, it became the Park,
              just as the fair, we can yet see some petanque players
              on nice days.
              this space deserves re-overall…

              Curs.

              And there were 50 beers to choose from.


              Originally posted by O'Zebedee
              Will Our Dead Pet Bunnies Join Us In Valhalla?

              SI Crew: We will listen now. After your father's murder, you were orphaned. You were ten years old. You went to live with cousins on a rabbit and donkey ranch in Montana. And...?

              OZEB: [tears begin forming in his eyes] And one morning, I just ran away.

              SI Crew: No "just", OZEB. What set you off? You started at what time?

              OZEB: Early, still dark.

              SI: Then something woke you, didn't it? Was it a dream? What was it?

              O': I heard a strange noise.

              SI: What was it?

              O': It was... screaming. Some kind of screaming, like a child's voice.

              SI: What did you do?

              O': I went downstairs, outside. I crept up into the barn. I was so scared to look inside, but I had to.

              SI: And what did you see, O'Zeb? What did you see?

              O': Bun-buns. The bunnies were screaming.

              SI: The donkeys were raping the spring bunnies?

              O': And they were screaming.

              SI: And you ran away?

              O': No. First I tried to free them. I... I opened the gate to their pen, but they wouldn't run. They just sat there, confused. They wouldn't run.

              SI: But you could and you did, didn't you?

              O': Yes. I took one big bun under each arm, and I ran away as fast as I could.

              SI: Where were you going, O'Zeb?

              O': I don't know. I didn't have any food, any water and it was very cold, very cold. I thought, I thought if I could save just two, but... they was so heavy. So heavy. I didn't get more than a few miles when the sheriff's car picked me up. The rancher was so angry he sent me to live at the Armenian Orthodox orphanage in Pennsylvania with Kane. I never saw the ranch again.

              SI: What became of your buns, O'Zeb?

              O': They killed them.

              SI: Well, O'Zeb - have the bunnies stopped screaming? You still wake up sometimes, don't you? You wake up in the dark and hear the screaming of the bun-buns.

              O': Yes.

              .

              Originally posted by Zed
              You're not going to start on Schroedinger's cat now, are you?

              Enforcing equality is the opposite of freedom, letting the chips fall where they may


              1. When the box is opened, the cat is licking his balls;
              2. When the box is opened, the cat seems to have been licking his balls when he died;
              3. When the box is opened, the cat looks at you looking at him licking his balls;
              4. When the box is opened, the cat looks at the person behind you looking at you looking at him licking his balls;
              5. When the box is opened, the cat seems to look at you but may be dead;
              6. When the box is opened, the cat has disappeared because he has completely disintegrated with the passage of alternative centuries;
              7. When the box is opened, the cat immediately jumps out and begins licking your balls;
              8. When the box is opened, the cat immediately jumps out and begins sequentially licking your balls and tearing your balls to pieces, with the duration of each action and the time-separation between actions occurring in such brief instants of time that they are not observable;
              9. When the box is opened, you and the cat have changed places; or
              10. When the box is opened, you are dead, and can make no observations.
              11. Freedom of speech is limited by the extent to which your brain is still attached to your backbone.



              The White Rose and the Red

              --------------------------------------------------------------------------------

              .

              HE an Ivory lad, with eyes sea-green and sea-blue,
              Fair in all limbs and adornment.

              With the end of day he heard a piper.
              Stood at his crag, let the wind
              Blow through his crisp curls unconsciously,
              Holding, peered ‘cross the darkening
              and espied the beechwood temple
              Known with its statue of the goddess of milky foam,
              Brimming over in herself it seemed

              Before her altar set honey-combs dripp’ed with oozy gold
              And that one lamp whose restless ruby glowed
              Forever in the cella.

              He passed from rock to the roof above her silent place
              And heard rose-petals falling from the latest wreath
              As the breezes wandered through her shrine,
              He saw through the open roof under his blue-white moon
              the cool marble floor –

              When from his nook downleapt the venturous lad,
              And flinging wide the carven cedar door
              Saw the blinking owl between her feet that didst hoot in shrill amaze.

              Ready for death with parted lips he stood,
              And well content at such a price to see
              That calm wide brow, that mountain maidenhood,
              The marvel of Woman that could be,

              Ready for death he stood, but lo! the verry aire
              Grew calm, and from his limbs he threw the cloak away,
              And nigher came,

              and touched her throat,

              and with hands violate

              Undid the white gown trimmed in all gold,
              And bared the breasts of polished ivory,
              Till from the waist the whole falling down
              Left visible the secret mystery
              Which to no lover would this goddess show,
              The grand cool flanks, the crescent thighs, the bossy hills of snow.

              He caressed and entangled himself in the utter smoothness of white.
              And then his lips in hungering delight
              Fed upon her lips, and round the towered neck
              He flung his arms, nor cared at all his passion’s will to check.

              Never did loving Man hold such tryst,
              Long in night he murmured honeyed word,
              And saw her sweet unravished limbs, and kissed
              Her pale and argent body undisturbed,
              And played upon the polished throat, and pressed
              His hot and beating heart upon her chill and icy breast.

              Her wide stair of orb?d marble then began to snow,
              …And t’was as if arrows had
              Pierced his wild and whirling brain,
              And his nerves thrilled like throbbing violins

              In exquisite pulsation and pain of
              Such sweet anguish, he never drew
              His lips away till his own tears fell over her.

              Then did that worshipped body seem to stir,
              As his had risen and fallen to rise again.
              How long his next kiss was, how fond and lingering.

              Then he thought he saw a wonder, across the pure white
              thin silken threads of azure spread.

              Against her drift of snow,
              The moon, girdled with a crystal rim,
              Worked a magic
              And soon the breath of its night came and fanned
              Her cool cheeks, and lifted ever so gently
              The curls from off her forehead, while
              He gazed with strange and secret smile.

              He laughed small, thinking on love’s secret mysteries
              And when she saw a white and gleaming arm begin to move
              All his manhood, with longing eyes
              Whose passion mocked her sweet virginity
              Began to sing praises
              To her to make the sweetest serenade,
              Ah! little care indeed, for he had seen
              The come-to-life breasts and naked wonder of the Queen!

              He saw at close
              A seamless veil of blue threads
              Through her white porcelain.

              She suave breathed in, in-spired as never before
              And he, the profaner of great mysteries,
              Ardent amorous idolater,
              When he beheld grand relentless eyes
              Open prayed.

              The pale moon washes all, that bold ravisher
              and the New Woman.
              For very beautiful were both,
              with mouths made and re-made to kiss

              Of all the brightest star
              To be hidden deep within the goddess
              Through her stonewhite ripe red spread like new wine,
              Throbbed with the fitful pulse of amorous blood,
              and every deepest blue vein gave watch.

              He a gale, she felt but the gentle summer breeze, warming…

              But the wild winds of passion then shook her stem’s maidenhood.
              She felt his hot breath stir her tangled hair,
              Turned away, looked back, and fled no more from life’s snare.

              To kiss those pallid limbs which with rising fire glowed,
              Even wet seas could not now quench that holocaust,
              That self-fed flame, that passionate lustihead,

              No-thing that night more would wither those lilies white and red
              Which each answered one another now in sweet antiphony

              By music of the heart,
              Together they, rose-red youth and rose-white innocence
              Passioned tangled web
              Danced without arising.

              Demanding lovers weave and are woven, twin and are entwined
              This Man-god’s arms crushing her breasts in amorous tyranny,
              They moved to no subtle charms
              Limb to limb in long and rapturous bliss.

              Laughed loud for joy, and crying out “I come”
              Leapt into her churning foam
              With his galley’s painted prow.

              Force a fortress, and steal back only to force the way in again,
              nor thought it sin, for the eyes of both were alive now with hunger

              To yield her treasure unto one so fair,
              And lay beside him, thirsty and ravenous
              Say no-thing
              But with hot lips make havoc of his red mouth

              She almost seemed to laugh then, and then
              Returned to her own fresh assault,
              Nor admitted what sacrilege his lips’ deed had be-gun,

              He felt her throbbing bosom, and his breath came hotly fueled,
              Until they seemed one perfect rose of flame,
              And all her hoarded sweets were his to have,
              And all in her was his to slay,

              And unseeing yet feeling the crimson sun and whitened moon,
              “somewhere here about”; See,
              They make our own orbs of great power!
              Out of snow drops and human blood.

              His hands buried into her throne of pearl
              And a blue wave of mist overcame.

              With flakes of crimson light, the great deep
              of her chamber began to unfold,
              From ivory and pearl her rose blossomed forth, its red petals parting
              To spread their glory and their bounty – wide to taste.

              Tremulous opal-hued to wave red ripe fringes
              That reflected upon the marbled floor, and argosies
              Of moist love threaded their own way through
              The drifting cordage of the blonde hairy wreck,
              Where beads of life fell out upon the holy floor

              It was for thee I kept my love,
              I knew that thou would’st bring
              Fairest flowers for the endless foam

              To the beating, back to the boisterous billow
              That huge vault behind watery portico,
              To watch the purple monster of the deep
              Arise from his lair and leap to play,

              A hot hard flame erupts from its lilywhite sheath,
              A pillar rising from the Plain,
              It whirls up and thrusts down the road of the earth
              Red Sword to spear-plant swollen life
              …in that wild throb when all things seem narrowed to one.

              Slake my parch?d Being with the nectarous feast
              Which even Gods affect! O come Love come.

              This “murderous” paramour, this unbidden guest,
              Pierced and struck deep in horrid chambering,
              and ploughed a bloody furrow with its dart,
              and dug a long red road, and cleft with wing?d little death
              her heart.

              And the bright drops of crimson youth
              crept down her quaking alabaster side.

              Ah! pitiful it was to hear her moan,
              And very pitiful to see her “die”
              As she yielded up all her sweets, that dread mystery
              Which not to know is not to live at all,

              To catch the last notes of her cries,
              he mowed with careless scythe ‘round her flower bed,
              And eve cut petals of the rose,
              And with the flower’s loosened loveliness
              Laughed in wantonness, and pushed on.

              Her white throat whiter than a moony pearl
              Threaded with blue and red tapestry
              Had not yet ceased to shake, and her breasts
              Swayed like wind-stirred lilies in fearful unrest.

              Comes he Now with swift white-feathered snow,
              And blinding red-edged jags of lightning
              One great grand throb of life lives,
              Crowded into brief everlasting Time
              And deeply rolls the world over.

              Then spilled both the milky van,
              And it seemed the bright car of them soared into the dawning sky,
              Like a cloud the aerial caravan
              Passed over the seas silently.

              …From the depths of snow comes fire.
              Their white flesh and red blood burned the snow
              And slowly, softly, now quenched the flame
              Taking it into their own good god glow

              But when white dove had reached her fluttering soul
              Having shook the trembling petals of all her lips
              And passed into the void, this Venus knew
              And would bid her servants carve a cedar chest
              With all the wonder of His Story,

              From he whose life had been a fiery pulse of sin,
              a splendid shame, a holy miracle was wrought.
              One scorching harvest from fields of flame
              Where passion walks with naked unshod feet
              And is not wounded.

              Praise the pale god who loosed her zone.
              Drink deeply of one another, children
              Draw an end to Drought.

              Young white innocence and red youth made one
              As are two, White Man and White Woman,
              touching and seeing,
              With Braveheart one.

              In End, they lie seeking forever that sweet delight without sin,
              Tired no more in soul, nor wearied of no guilt
              her warm soft body parted in the Garden,
              a brier rose much wetted by the mist,
              which would be white entire with those gossamer threads of blue,
              yet blushes so at her own pride and joy.

              See the Sacred City,
              The Holy Family White.


              P.S. My principles may be out of date, but there is much to be said for my prejudices...


              Wherein i tear an solipsistic a-theist whigger pussy a whole new asshole


              And never get over masturbating theysselfs
              build into whatever some baal-priest says
              the true religion of the congenital savage
              yet yap about submission.

              forgiving your brother. who is that brother?
              worship of nerthius, whose pregnant female sacrifice drawn by an ox-cart with seven or nine pregnant heifers ended up in a sacred grove wherein all the girleys, two and four legged, had their throats slit on the altar?
              king yourself.

              A sparrow buffeted by the winds who’d seen a small hole in a great hall and found shelter.
              not jewdayo-churchianity, baal-priests, beaner mamzers
              returned to vomit and eat back up that which made
              …the first sickness!
              you would make of jews super-mamzers and not
              infested jewdayo kikeshit.

              seek putupcreatards…or violent maniacs like myself.

              eunuchoid whiggers right to the chute leading up to the jewlag.
              first to alienation, and then into a death camp…or bathe in the ichor of kikesses.

              newbie quack fresh from nut skrule / a-theist twat jewr solipsistic whigger pussy hiding to jewstify cowardice

              …or my forefathers killing off every red nigger they could find by any cheap means possible.


              Reflections of things to come, mirrored in the dead

              --------------------------------------------------------------------------------

              Stalking the night, pain shivering down my spine,
              a greybeard dappled in gore.
              I and my Flesh Hungry Dogs,
              Jackhammer, ClosedCircuit and RedFoam
              cursor and imperil
              the Villages of Integral Peace.

              I've seen it unfold before, terrible scenes of agony.
              Split eyes in the darkness
              echoing their madness.
              Crew cuts starten with hook and saw,
              finished by both hands in the cuts,
              knuckle to knuckle, drawing out
              each thought process entirely.

              Sculpt flesh openings,
              then grout these massy windows
              shut against any objection,
              mounded somewhat in defenestration.

              Grind the rest to slop meat,
              (forget not the quiver liver!)
              and serve approved K-rations
              by tasty bits and great chunks
              to my furry friends.

              Tears of blood widespread o'er clothes,
              crying down untold unmark'd for no'ne to find,
              their saints and my demons
              thus fall from their sky to my dirt.

              Redangst begins to fade
              in a pool of sweat'd blood,
              a sign my life's coming to.
              I'm alive alone but they've gone dead
              piss'dupon unburied and,
              as yet, unburnt…

              Now I listen only to what is not spoken.
              I am feeding memories to
              pass on to the dead and the unborn,
              both of drunken reality
              and sober haunting fantasm.

              These seem to hold me together at the seams
              and tear others apart at the thickest sets,
              leaving me in stitches…

              Condemned to a soul of obscurity
              as the only way to persist,
              I suffer to survive,
              They to not.

              Life lived in the raw,
              temptations of the flesh,
              with death paid the same,
              but no cash, please!

              Barter only.


              What does it mean to be Human? (Neandertal Genome sequenced)

              --------------------------------------------------------------------------------

              .

              All have probably heard by now of the announced “complete” genome sequencing of the Neandertal specie and the extent of its ancient DNA in non-Africans. Perhaps the most striking finding is that there are conditions in “modern” humans that could not have occurred among Neandertals, because their genetics were different in these areas.

              Neandertals could NOT have Type 2 diabetes, Down syndrome, schizophrenia, or autism, all of which modern humans are subject to.

              David F. Horrobin first suggested in 2001 in his book “the Madness of Adam and Eve” that “mild” schizophrenia, expressed as neurotic thinking and behaviour, was in fact the distinguishing mark of humanity. He may now have been proved correct.

              Whereas Neadertals could probably not be severely retarded, epileptic, attention-deficit, autistic, Aspergers, spastic, catatonic, paranoid, phobic, delusional, delirious, frenzied, demented, senile, amnesiac, narcoleptic, insomniac, dissociated, schizoid, lost of identity, bulimic, stigmatic, passive, liars, deceitful, hypocritical, sold down the river, made dupes, tools, or fools of, impersonal or impersonators, malingering or pretentious, fetishist or faddish, perverts, degenerates, traumatized, hysterical, frigid, homosexual or transvestite, or feel severe anxiety, “stress” or depression, NEITHER could they likely be manic with excitement, ecstatic, amazed, in wonderment, fascinated, affective, dramatic, imitative or simulative, preoccupied, obsessed, compelled, proud or humble, argumentative, devious, secretive or attention whores, ascetic, celibate, chaste, purified, reclusive, distant, secluded, solitary, fixated, self-absorbed, abashed or ashamed, penitent, cunning, scheming, bluffing, evasive, predictive, diagnostic, discerning or strategic, beguiling, conceptual or ideal, experimental, canny or uncanny, superstitious, hopeful or doubtful, excessively curious, impulsive, “high”, thrill-seeking, highly competitive, distant, alienated, exiled, excommunicated, scapegoated, isolated, ostracized or outlawed, moody or temperamental, NOR could they be forgiving OR unforgiving, merciful, spiritual, miraculous, humorous or...even dream, as indicated by the absence of any form of Neander art.

              .

              Warriors of the Past and Present

              --------------------------------------------------------------------------------

              .

              21st Century Spiritual Warrior

              Sunday, May 16, 2:00-5:00pm
              with MSIA facilitator, Zoe Golightly

              When people ask me what a Spiritual Warrior looks like, I say, "Just like you." It is what you are doing inside of you while you participate outside of you, a totally simple way of living, an internal harmony and balance. There are many mansions within to be-in. Now claim that "armor of the spiritual warrior" with essential qualities like health, wealth, happiness, prosperity, and abundance. Bring Spirit into your relationships, finances, career, health, and more. Discover a practical approach to help you incorporate spirituality into your everyday life in a tangible, workable way. Touch in to the Spirit in Everyday Life, and find those “soul” moments when you realize God is our true dance partner, granting beauty, peace, and tranquility. There is nothing extraordinary that you need to do. Simply open your awareness to all that is around you and all that is within you, and follow the loving. Let go and let God. To heal, first you must forgive yourself. And when you are healed, you will real-ize that the Journey is Everything. Become a Mystic Traveler on that Journey. Reflect on this at the 9th level.


              19th Century Spiritual Warrior

              Grace through clarity of vision, purpose, steadfastness of faith, the depth of your understanding of those you protect, and your willingness to give up your own health, wealth, happiness, prosperity, and abundance, if need be, for their beauty, peace, and tranquility.

              You are God’s Hammer, in this way touching His enemies, and living for exceptional moments of exception. There is nothing ordinary that you need to do. Simply open your awareness to all that is around you and all that is within you, as you prepare to enter Hell.

              Bring Holy Spirit into your moments of controlled madness; never give up, never surrender, unless it is to seize upon a better opportunity for slaughter. For the persecution of your People is worse than the slaughter of their prosecutors, whose suffering is as nothing by comparison. There may be many mansions to burn, garments and possessions to rend. You yourself will heal, or not.

              You will laugh at myths, and know the time to be a Legend is after you’ve gone. Now, imagine a boot stomping on a truly human face, forever. Reflect on that, and always remember that the Journey itself is nothing, if the end is the end of the line for your People. As for forgiveness, let God sort it out.


              …The last world leaders, far from being the heirs of great power, will be of all most subject to the dead hand of the re-conditioners and will themselves exercise no power past this end of history. The dominant age is the one which resists and nignores all previous ages most successfully, and thus masters “humanity”. That is the age we live in, most tragically.

              The word "hybrid", as in everything welcomed into this world of ours, derives from the Greek hubris -- insolence against the gods. It is an insolence that takes the pure and adulterates it, and in doing so emasculates and eviscerates its power.

              This generation of whores is also a generation of mongrelization in being and thought, a “thing” inevitable as the end of greatness itself.


              .

              Last Meal Ordered on Death Row
              .

              Drambuie on the rocks

              Consumme de escargot

              Hearts of Palm Roquefort-Vinaigrette

              Iced Constant Comment

              Two hot baguettes courtesy of an Auvergnian virgin's first yeast infection

              Giant scallops poached in butter with the garlic sliced so thin it melts

              Lobster Newberg

              One more of those tres especiale baguettes

              Sweetbreads Forestiere (but add best truffles and use well-aged Gruyere)

              Two Napoleons with Mocha (NOT "Mocha-Java"!) Kaffee

              One Rey Del Mundo Lonsdale
              One Ramon Allones Torpedo
              One Rey Del Mundo Lonsdale
              One Ramon Allones Torpedo

              More Drambuie on the rocks

              .

              04-02-2009, 01:12 PM
              http://stumbleinn.net/forum/showpost...9&postcount=11
              ____________________________
              I am The Librarian
              http://whitenationalist.org/forum/
              http://www.pastorlindstedt.org/forum/

              Comment


              • #8
                Reflections of things to come, mirrored in the dead

                Reflections of things to come, mirrored in the dead

                by fips



                http://www.whitenationalist.org/foru...ted=1#post3003


                Stalking the night, pain shivering down my spine,
                a greybeard dappled in gore.
                I and my Flesh Hungry Dogs,
                Jackhammer, ClosedCircuit and RedFoam
                cursor and imperil
                the Villages of Integral Peace.

                I've seen it unfold before, terrible scenes of agony.
                Split eyes in the darkness
                echoing their madness.
                Crew cuts starten with hook and saw,
                finished by both hands in the cuts,
                knuckle to knuckle, drawing out
                each thought process entirely.

                Sculpt flesh openings,
                then grout these massy windows
                shut against any objection,
                mounded somewhat in defenestration.

                Grind the rest to slop meat,
                (forget not the quiver liver!)
                and serve approved K-rations
                by tasty bits and great chunks
                to my furry friends.

                Tears of blood widespread o'er clothes,
                crying down untold unmark'd for no'ne to find,
                their saints and my demons
                thus fall from their sky to my dirt.

                Redangst begins to fade
                in a pool of sweat'd blood,
                a sign my life's coming to.
                I'm alive alone but they've gone dead
                piss'dupon unburied and,
                as yet, unburnt…

                Now I listen only to what is not spoken.
                I am feeding memories to
                pass on to the dead and the unborn,
                both of drunken reality
                and sober haunting fantasm.

                These seem to hold me together at the seams
                and tear others apart at the thickest sets,
                leaving me in stitches…

                Condemned to a soul of obscurity
                as the only way to persist,
                I suffer to survive,
                They to not.

                Life lived in the raw,
                temptations of the flesh,
                with death paid the same,
                but no cash, please!

                Barter only.



                04-07-2009, 06:32 PM

                ____________________________
                I am The Librarian
                http://whitenationalist.org/forum/
                http://www.pastorlindstedt.org/forum/

                Comment


                • #9
                  God At A Garage Sale


                  God At A Garage Sale


                  Don't know if this one necessarily qualifies as "apocalyptic", but it's definitely timely, and was written earlier this afternoon, inspired by a dream I had this morning.



                  I'm actually posting it here before I re-order the verses and "officially" write it down in my notebook. ---TCM72.



                  --------------------------------------------------------------------------


                  GOD AT A GARAGE SALE

                  by CGO



                  As in the days Of Chaucer,
                  Once more, the soon-to-be-beggared pilgrims
                  Gather at the corner of Prudence and Possiblity,
                  Bowing in reverence to the Old Man.



                  "Step right up, folks!" he says.
                  "Got a lot of good stuff here to sell
                  And it's all for cheap!"



                  My eyes are immediately fixed upon a stray cloud,
                  Lonely wandering upon hind's feet,
                  And doe-eyed, indeed.



                  Maiden, fear me not!
                  I seek only thy gentle and merciful soul.
                  And will it be denied me?



                  Your eyes tell me
                  You've learned the Lesson:
                  That where there is Majesty,
                  There is no Mercy,
                  And where there is Mercy,
                  There is no Majesty,
                  Save His Majesty,
                  Shining through you,
                  Which this vile world
                  Calls Madness or Misery.



                  Why would any well-bred gentlewoman,
                  In our all-too-genteel society,
                  Choose, of her own free will,
                  To be God's dishrag?



                  She would be accused of hysteria,
                  If not out-and-out heresy,
                  And maybe lobotomized as a witch.



                  But you brave all these things
                  In an instant,
                  Knowing the Truth.



                  What could be more noble and blessed
                  Than two souls
                  Seeking the Kingdom together?
                  Helping each other along the Way.
                  Sharing each other's joys and sorrows.
                  Steadying the other, should he stumble.
                  Breaking one's fall, should she slip.
                  Leading one another through the darkness.
                  Leaning on one another when they grow weary.
                  And, finally, arriving at their Destination together.
                  Crossing the River to a hero's welcome
                  At the gates of the City.



                  Surely it must've been written
                  In the Book Of Fate
                  That we undertake our Journey together!



                  She smiles weakly
                  And turns away.
                  The afternoon hangs on a Crucifix.



                  Uncover the tarpoleon!
                  Gas fumes in the face of oblivion.
                  Darkness and devils!



                  But what is this distant, glimmering Hope
                  I see in the corner of this intersection?
                  Could there yet be Deliverance
                  From this Hell?



                  "Now this, young man, is a barber's chair
                  That I was lucky enough to stumble upon
                  A few years back."



                  "And, when you talk to my grand-daughter, sonny!"
                  (He says, as the crowd begins to chuckle.)
                  "That's the way I want to see you!"
                  "Leaned all the way back
                  With both arms on the handrests,
                  So I can keep an eye on you!"
                  (The crowd applauds.)



                  But she smiles.
                  And the sunrise and sunset
                  Are in her smile.



                  My God!
                  I can no more resist those hazel eyes
                  Than the stunning azure canopy
                  Of October sky above me.



                  But, though you may indeed be an angel,
                  Dear Lady, you are certainly not Jesus.
                  Jesus has no vagina.



                  What?
                  Surely you have heard of God in this neighborhood,
                  Haven't you?



                  You're altogether, my love,
                  And that's just the problem.
                  All too together.



                  Your gentle eyes and calm demeanor
                  Comfort me greatly,
                  Like a subtle summer breeze
                  That causes a man to forsake the harvest
                  And go chasing after rabbits.



                  Sanity is a rare thing in woman.
                  Much too rare.



                  Yet I neither see in your eyes
                  Nor hear in your words
                  Any trace of that ruthless, pretentious amibition,
                  Vain, money-grubbing superficiality,
                  General brattiness or smug solipsism
                  That your sex is usually plagued with.



                  Instead, all your dreams seem altogether rational,
                  Humble, and decent.
                  Your taste, impeccable.
                  Your worldview, correct.



                  You are every inch a Princess, dear Lady,
                  And you wear your crown well.
                  Not haughtily or imperiously,
                  But with grace and humility,
                  As if it had sat upon your head
                  From the moment of your birth.



                  But you know no fear
                  And God has no daughters.
                  Your lack of terror
                  Terrifies me.



                  Have you never known it?
                  Not at all?
                  Not even as a child?
                  Surely even a Princess has nightmares,
                  And cries out for her Mother and Father.



                  To whom did you cry out
                  When they tired of coming to comfort you?
                  This is all I would seek to know of you.



                  What?
                  No nightmares at all?
                  Do you think me a coward or a fool
                  For having had them myself?
                  Or merely an inferior?
                  I seek no such unequal union.



                  Do you claim, yourself, to be the Holy Grail?
                  The Balm In Gilead?
                  The Lily Of The Valley?
                  Will our children be heirs to the Kingdom
                  Just by virtue of your blood running through their veins?
                  And shall we summon God, like a friendly ghost,
                  To our supper table?



                  My dear, this is madness!
                  I beg you to reconsider
                  And repent.
                  To go down upon your knees with me
                  And seek His Face and His forgiveness,
                  For nothing is more blessed
                  Than Adam and Eve
                  Standing together in the River.



                  But, if you refuse to pray,
                  Then you have revealed yourself as a demon,
                  For Satan has the power to assume a pleasing shape.



                  And I will neither take your hand
                  Nor bid you fond farewell,
                  But curse you back to the Pit
                  From whence you came,
                  And leave this Valley Of Shadows
                  For the Light,
                  Never to return.



                  Charles Gavan O'Lanahan. 11/8/2010.

                  http://www.whitenationalist.org/foru...=3096#post3096
                  Last edited by PastorLindstedt; 11-08-2010, 02:56 PM. Reason: Add Links, header
                  IF YOU STILL LOVE AMERIKA, YOU'RE A NIGGER-LOVER!!! ---CGO. 1/20/'09.



                  "Lay down your silver and your gold
                  I am a man who won't be sold
                  And even when my heart grows cold
                  I'll curse your evil stranglehold."---Horslips, from "Trouble With A Capital 'T'", 1977.

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