Congregants All

There he is, fresh from his rutting, and back at his strutting.


But look at the males behind him. These males have some facts at their command. They know that he "married" a blond daughter and ravished her beauty into something unspeakable. They know that he has copulated with any white slut (and only white sluts) willing to open her dishonorable legs to him. They know all about him.

And he knows all about them. Note his heavy-lidded and stuporous eyes - half junglebunny and half islandmonkey - staring out at his white worshipers, pleased at their predictable forgiveness. And scanning the gallery for his next grunting conquest.

Here's a poem I wrote a few years ago. It's aimed at the God-damned white men in the photo.
They have their reward.

~ Wheeler MacPherson


The Congregant

I might not swing my child support this month

And the answering machine might have to run

Interference between the banker boys

And me, but come Sunday (I remember

It to keep it wholly), I’ll be wedged

In a produce stand of my peers above

A fake field, bellowing out my loyalty

To a jersey, to a number, to a

Mother-mocking slave. And why not?

I’m deep in him; he’s like my son. Wasn’t

It my patronage that scholar-shipped

His alien leers through four full years at a

Party school, an alumni tool

That stamped him out with just about the proudest

Pure bullshit that guilt can buy? Isn’t

It my friends and I who squat atop

The bleachers (while our sons all rust on benches)

And give roaring offerings to his name

And ape his moves and mumbles with our kosher

Suicidal energies? Yes

And yes, and so I own a piece of him

(Though I’d never put it quite like that).

I’m investing in our future. Really.

~ copyright 2006 by Wheeler MacPherson
8 comments
Thanks Wheeler good post!