Yes, it is a slave I wish to be,
a slave to Love all encompassing,
a slave to Justice for All.
I offer up my wrist
to the Righteous manacle,
my ankle to the Holy shackle.
So that I may know neverending,
my dignity and freedom will be forever preserved, by the inviolable compact
of loving parent, and obedient child.

The spruce boughs shake
like rattlesnakes
as I brush past them, down the path.
Winter's fighting for his life,
but Spring has her hands
clenched firm around his throat.

T-shirt clad, in the dead of night,
 I revel in the raindrops
and I can't help but wonder
will February showers
bring March flowers?
Will my Dandelions return,
before the Spring solstice?

Warmer than usual
is what they say...
The hot breath of our death
is what they mean.

If half of what the doomsayers say
truly comes to pass
(we all know that it will)
one loop will feed the other
as the grasslands burn,
and the icecaps become fairy tales...

Those ****** Chinese
and their self fulfilling hoax's.

Oh my dear Lord
Your beautiful creation of the dandelions...
Oh my great God
Your beautiful creation of my heart...
Oh the beautiful dandelions
The owners of the blue sky
Ask God whether I can imagine
your dress carrying Jasmines !!!
I haven't told the sky how much I love you
but I've told God...


ای خدای من
...قاصدک ها را زیبا آفریدی
ای خدای بزرگ
...قلب من را زیبا آفریدی
ای قاصدک های زیبا
که آسمانی آبی دارید
به خدا بگویید
اشکالی ندارد
اگر فکر کنم
!!! پیراهن شما گل یاسمن دارد
من به آسمان نگفته بودم
شما را دوست دارم
...به خدا گفته بودم

You cant stop the coming holocaust
my dear sweet sunny Jane.
So pack your bags for world war three
and put a bullet in your brain.
The lonesome whistle's blowing
and you'd best not miss the train.
The rain shows no sign of slowing
and every martyr dies in vain.

no more kind words
not one word of praise
the blood of the wolves
has washed away
those memories of better days.

no more sleek machines
their all rusting hulks and crates
the sweet strings are frayed
the beds been made
the chord's between the blade of fates.

Their teeth are poised for slaughter
the wheel of death has turned
our flowers choke on ashes
and how and where the children burn
its none of our concern

The best of the best
jumped ship like the rest
pigs gather for their feast
the deserts spreading, ever west
the great now kneel before the least

You might steal an hour of peace
even the devil needs to sleep
to rest his wicked head
So when the quick have all dropped dead
keep an axe beside your bed

Babylon is burning
and the firemen have fled

I was born in that tragic year
America slit its own throat.
I've never seen this fairy tale
that you call the land of the free.
All I see is unfettered exploitation
In the name of the green cotton god.
Mad dogs bark and whine
out of two different mouths,
tugging at the leashes
held by porcine fingered monsters
perched high on their thrones
made of slaughtered sheep bones.

But, you had me fooled for so long, America.
I spent five years afloat
supporting your neverending crusade.
If I knew the truth then,
I would have never raised my hand.
How can I support and defend something
with one hand,
and strangle every single word
with my other.

Your a battered woman,  
my motherland.
The land of the free?
All I see is an endless train of cattle,
blindly marching towards the abbatoir.
We can all smell the blood on the air,
but, until the hammer crushes our skull
we never consider the reality.
We eat the flesh of our fellows
while waiting in line to die.

Home of the brave?
All I see in every pair of downcast eyes
is the despair of cowardice.
I'd rather starve, all alone,
than lockstep towards the slaughterhouse.
I don't care about the hungry billionaires,
I refuse to be a delicacy
for your flag-slaving masters.

I see the starbursts of incendiary bombs
dropped on civilians,
and the stripes across the backs of countless slaves,
in this flag I once saluted with pride.
Before your hypocrisy finally opened my eyes.

Who are you really, America?
Are you a ghost, or a puppet?
Not really there,
or not what you pretend to be?
An eagle with clipped wings,
or a temple caught on fire?
Tell me please, I must know
why you have turned everyone I love
into a pathological liar?
If I turn my back
and walk away from you
will you even wave goodbye?
Do you ever cry, America?
Cry, like the beloved starlet,
who first notices the wrinkles
forming around her sparkling eyes,
like cracks in the foundation
that has covered up the truth
of her lined and blemished face.
Do you ever feel afraid, America,
that these may be your final days?
Or are you resigned to your fate
like your pathetic fawning children
are resigned to being psuedo-slaves.
Were you ever really the illusion,
or have you always been this way?

Do not deny it
the scent of the simmering ***,
bubbling with cravings,
a ghost in a dream,
a room, or a few,
with defiant candles
and shouting embraces,
and wine that flowed
like blood from the stump
of Marie Antoinette's neck,
at least that is how I remember it.