I’d like to be a racist so that I could hate myself like liberals hate racists. Hate is an embrace and I am waltzing in the stars. The moon is my green cheese digestion. I am fetching on a constellation. A nation? No, a notion beyond mankind’s diminutive map.
I am sickened by how easily racism has become a monstrous word. Big deal. There are no monsters in attitude. Only in deeds.
I feel close to me when I am all twined up in myself,
All caught up in my segmented consciousness in my fragmented
Bigotry that tears the night sky.
So in your simpleminded approach at sophomoric sophistry you think that racism is the worst thing in the world. It is at the tip of every politicians forked tongue. It’s a shame to blame others. Sharpton, fat or thin, is a finger pointing at whatever doesn’t move.
I don’t give a damn about the small bit racism
Takes out of our love.
It’s no big deal.
It’s the liberals dealing out guilt cards instead of recognition
Of the varied consciousness and its wonderful bipolar contradictions.
I worry about war, rape, murder and decapitations which matter more than crybaby retreats from the joker’s deal of the cards of bigotry.
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