The God in the broken machine of the ghost,
Of course that's me.
I'll burst out of my Nostradamian cage and attack,
Without pity or mercy,
With fury, death and destruction,
Out of which something always rises, (like the phoenix) ,
Which will unbind and transform Vulcan's chains -
Into an Eagle, spreading its wings -
Over something glorious - where glory cannot retreat -
Or be commandeered by spineless liberal democrats
In their futile Marxian quest for Nietzschian pity.
The end of God and not too soon.
There will be glory again!
Comradeship, patriotism, grit. Sturm und Drang.
We'll have them back.
We'll all be supermen,
By martial means through Wagner and Goethe.
In the end, which justify the means,
Which have to be mean, very mean.
Pragmatism takes no prisoners.
Affairs must be completed quickly.
No debate.
No democratic Procrastination that be-devils the saintly.
Instant decisions.
Let the bureaucrats sweep take care of the niceties,
The little Things that mean so much to the little people,
Who live in a materialist heaven; without culture;
But when have they ever had it?
We will open the closed eyes of the masses.
And cure their blindness by force.
It's only a matter of time and struuggle.
We must have a system of law based on obedience,
Not emotionless fairness
So the people know where they are,
And, more importantly -
Know who they are.
Stuart Miers
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-myth-of-innocence/
