Riot Call II

I have sent a request
to all the white cone clad
twiddling their thumbs with menace
and hunting for their latest scapegoat
to mask their feelings of inadequacy...

As the smut on my garage door
slithers your hatred along
in the form of the word "FAGGOT"
and the last three men who shook me to the core
have been reduced to front page casualties,
I beg to finally join this league of humankind.

Please, ladies and cavemen, do as I ask
or I might just lead myself to
break
your double standard neck into thousands
of desperate times that surpass desperate measures.

You see, you've eliminated all the other options,
as I will no longer be reduced
to another strange fruit hanging
on the swastika tree, for I've seen
the cracks from the stones
colliding into your precious glass houses.

Preaching your "manhood" and your "sanctity"
on your altars as the color of your
wife's eyes seem to slip your busy mind,
giving us yet another juxtaposition
to lock with these once worn chains
onto your Stone Age door.

It must stop.
Those sounds of you slinging
your fists and your speech
towards all, including your own flesh and blood.

Our palms can't stay nailed to the wooden floor,
our lips can't stay sewn shut anymore,
angels writhing in their graves,
your time has run out!
Here my friend...is your riot call.

Riot Call

It's such a tragic statistic
when the last thing on earth
that approaches your face
is a patch of brown grass,
pale and dry from age,
dead from poor nourishment,
just like your need for acceptance.

And it’s even more destructive
when the scarlet blood
hanging onto the tip
was pulled from your bone marrow,
all the way through your thick, coarse skin,
by the dense and moldy wooden plank,
swung in the hands of the town’s valiant savior.

Yes, there are rapists and fascists
living in each corner of the street,
pillaging their families of their dignity,
ejaculating on the very words they glorify,
but the filthy path in which you tread
might as well be a bull’s eye on your forehead.

The tides of holy water did not burn an inch,
did not smother your facet of human nature,
did not blindly agree with our fright-ridden hatred,
so the only and easy way out
is to induct you into our slaughterhouse,
all because you loved.

Can love be executed so poorly
that it awaits a death penalty?
In a Utopian ideal, anything can die.

And they wonder,
with our dying breath,
and the dirt being shoved
against our battered faces,
why we declare a riot call.