I deafly crawl up.
My spine brims.
Faulty shadowed by my multi-facetted grin.
Who makes the man justified?

Who makes the man so fucking justified?

I corner my indulgence.
Keep it to the wall.
These foolish pawns fallen from their high-chairs with their
"justified" politics and their prada suited backs.
They scurry, vehemently detonatating their precious nation, as
they impregnate their hollow minds with the fattening
"liberatingly-political" discreet propoganda, they like to call
their own.
They tap their fingers so snuggly.
Their bastard children, littered mall rats, smugly fattening
their plump bellies with more American dollars and more American
drapery.
They wear their precious drapery, splattering society with their
so-called Americanism and their glutted American money.
They strut their beloved drapery and strut around these
corporate buildings like prostitutes, as they impregnate their
bellies with their ideals of man-made gluttony.
They wallow over in their satin sheets and complain.
Not enough food.
Not enough space.
Not enough clothes.
Never enough.
The refrigerator is full.
The house is over 3,500 square feet
The closet is crammed shut.
You can have 5 million dollars in your pocket and still not know
what to do.

How dare you call yourself a liberal?
When you don't live what you speak.
You don't live what you speak.
You confine yourself in gluttony and call it injustice.
You empty out your fat wallet on the 300 dollar wardrobe
decomposing at the bottom of your closet, and you open the
television and protest that the children are starving.
I wonder why they're starving
I just wonder why they're starving.
You hoard your American dollars in your precious drapery and you
still can't feed the world.
Where's the injustice now?

Where's the goddamned injustice now?

How can you call yourself a liberal when you strut down Los
Angeles and flaunt your jutting curves and wheels, with your
platinum dollars, and your hookered mulit-million dollar smile.
How can you call yourself a liberal, when you throw your money
like loose change around the corporate exchange.
Feed your children, yes.
And feed your stingy indulgence, sure, why not?

Ship out of this country if you can't take the heat that this
factory called America, heaves.

Feed the metaphor and become another statistic.

And for the hot topic kids, rigging out the cash.
Don't call yourself an anarchist when you're still fucking with
the capitalists.
You parade down these corporate faced halls, like a whore.
You willingly spread your legs open, and let the suits pan you
out, around this country, where you instinctively thrive on the
Capitalism that your proud ancestors scorned.
You parade down these corporate faced halls of the pimp who owns
you, called Corporate America.
Dressed in your finest, you spread your legs wide open and
declare what you don't know.
Foolish whore, raped bare your own child for the fashionist
uprise of Corporate America.

And for the suits of republica, who have thrived here since the
beginning.
America's own golden child.
You once had me penned up within your corners.
You sit there in your high-chairs, looking down between these
city streets.
But you don't care.
You're as guilty as the rest of them.
You sell your children for statistics.
Any sacrifice for the cause.
You stash your dollars in your fine furnished boxes and rape the
streets bare of their own.
You keep them in their cycle, so you can thrive instinctively,
running up your mouths on the capital and up beyond the streets.
You ignore your own children and let them starve, as you dream
up the dreams of Capital America.
Yes, you fight the war.
Savior, with a cause.
But you dispense your own children and make the weak ones, the
sole bastards of the nation.
Where the fuck do you get off?
With your high-chairs and all, that your parents with their
dignified dollars, slid to you in parcels, with your so-called
self-made
justification wired into your brains.
Someday you might find your nation in fault, if you don't take
it to the streets.
And listen to the true complains your forsaken children have to
repeat.

As the millions rush down their paved asphalt streets.
The rest flock inside the churches.
The lock themselves within the stone walls and hide.
They stand there in droves, fine-breed and "justified", hiding
the swell of centuries on their dry skinned backs.
No one dare says a word.
The spineless fools scurry down the long corridors, to find
their God.
As these pompous hypocrites, drape themselves in their fine-
furnished garments, screeching and preaching their "righteous"
and "justified" word. They hide their boys in closets. They
silence their fears with their forced toothed grins.
They rape them clean of worthiness and no one says a word.
While their people starve and rot out in the urban jungle and
the bare wastelands, they hoard their dollars in their clean
stashed pockets, and hold it to the sky, where they carry
themselves as gods and build their golden palaces of soiled
grinning closets.
How dare you call yourself a child of God?
When you rape your brothers and sisters of their justification?

A woman sits next to the window frame.
Bruises etched into her skin, staining her body.
A woman crawls up out of the dark alley.
She kneels to the ground, liberty stolen, clothes snatched bare,
and fetus taken hostage.
Screaming self-blame.
They never did anything.
No one hears.
The nation shuts their ears and eyes.
They refuse to hear.
This nation of men.
Who the fuck gave you the justification to steal?
Who the fuck gave you the justification to stand over them?
One day, you might find your nation faulty and a woman in your
rule.
One day, you'll know what it's like to hurt.
You teach your little girls to wall themselves up and never say
a word, while you teach your little boys to will them down and
to filthy their liberation, until they fuck their brains out.
Who the fuck are you to decide?
When you can't even justify your own life and your own society
and your own goddamned nation.
Filthy and crooked, who's the slut now?
Filthy and soiled, who the whore now?
Wake up, and smell the goddamned air, cause it's stale and it's
cold.
You build your nation on malice and ignorance.
Watch, because she'll break you cold, beyond your knees.
One day, you'll watch this plunge from the tip of your thick
fingers, and we'll see who's the titan.

And yes, you.
You who is reading this.
You glut yourself, and shake your head thinking you got the
world chipped over your shoulders, and you're innocent.
But it's people like you that have complained and sit here in
their clean sturdy chairs, you hum your television and drink it
down worthy, like you belong.
You glare at the television and declare for the first time its
injustice.
Cruelty, I'm sure.
But as I watch you sit there, so snug, reading this crumpled
piece of mind, you deem yourself with clean hands.
You can complain and declare, we're living in a fractured
democracy in a fractured society in a fractured nation.
You can scream that we're starving our own, in which we rob them
free of their civil liberties.
You think to wipe your hands clean, and sweep this clear, softly
under the rug.
You can care, but the truth is you bear as much guilt as the
rest of them.
Yes, you while you throw your loose change at anything that
deems gratifingly up-to-the-minute, that will add to your
thrifty package, holding you up like the rest of them.
You scurry like a frantic rat, throwing your loose change at
anything to drape around yourself for the impression.
You complain, objecting like it's some kind of injustice, while
you willingly still sell into it.

Middle American, snug little golden child yet bastard to the
core, pockets plumply filled with spare change, Willing
Corporate American slave, Capitalist fucker, Suburbia scum.

Liberal, Republican, Catholic,

Male, Female

Who are you to judge of a cause you know so little of?
Of a state you know so little of?
Of a society you know so little of?
Of a nation you know so little of?
Of a world you know so little of?

You feed your facts from blind mice, as guilty as yourself.
You become another statistic, like the millions yet to come.

The one who slides the pen is as guilty as you.
You rip your conviction from the television screen.
It's people like you.
Sometimes I get so sick of hearing your voice.
Sometimes, I'd just like to turn you off the way you turn off
the television screen, and pretend it's fine.
So talk your so-called politics and wipe your hands clean of
guilt.
But remember whose labor you wear.
Remember the name, and the credit you stole.
Remember those who dwell within these endless urban wastelands.
Remember whose shed blood resides in your vacant hands.