The Idols of the Tribe

A State which, in the epoch of race poisoning, dedicates itself to the cherishing of its best racial elements, must some day be master of the world. —Mein  Kampf I The veldt men pray Carved wood and stone And tear their flesh To vein and bone. The idols scowl In the brassy sun Unmindful of Appeasement done. Yea, warriors cringe, Whose tauntings dare The regnant brute In regal lair. As tribal gods The brave confound, They bruise their heads Against the ground. Kennings of death Encyst the square, The mourners drool And children scare. Hyena laughs Spear to the stars, Dark bodies fall Like ruptured spars. Witch doctors whine Edicts anew And saint their mugs Of chloral brew. Fear grapples fear, Crinkles the knife: And life is death And death is life. And he who dies Bequeaths the chief His herd and flock, But not his grief. Who dares to mock, Who dares to shove The idols folk Are schooled to love? And graybeards croak One fool alone Reviled the hakims Of wood and stone: And headmen staked The wretch to die From dooms that crawl And dooms that fly. Ages fag out In cyclic nights, But sire and son Repeat the rites. II The rule-or-ruin class, in idols of the tribe, Creates narcissine images of itself; Defend its fetishes from the merest gibe, Like iron captains of the Guelf. The black-veldt god Behold, hair kinked and flat, Against the sun’s needling myriapod A cooling mat. The low wide nostrils ventilate The long head in the incandescent air. Insufferable sunrays cannot penetrate Black tissues as the fair. The python arm with reach to spare Are at the beck of tribal law: The black-veldt god is not aware Of civilizations buried in the jungle’s maw. The yellow god Behold, his mongoloid eye fold, The color of his sod. The cheekbones arched and bold, The broad index of face, The stoic mold Herald the myth of race. Lulled by the incense wisdom of repose, Millenniums of candlelight, The vegetarian god turns up his nose At odors of the carnivorous white. The Nordic god Behold, his blue-gray eyes Far-famed to conquer with a single prod A people mazed in a hinterland of whys. Hairy as the ape, of lip as thin, With Mongol, one in blood, with African, He makes a pseudo-science of his skin And writes his autobiography Superman. Race biases sow Hemlocks to maim and blind, Pile up Sinais of woe, Jettison the freedoms of mind, Breed the hydras of stealth, Set kind razeeing kind, Convert to potter’s fields the commonwealth. Drink, O Fool, the bias of the tribe, Autograph the epitaph of pain, Press to the heart the fangs of the moccasin bribe, Rape beauty’s flesh behind the crib of grain, Let dust bowls blight the soul’s topography, Eat, O Fool, the racist shibboleth— Damn the soul to sodomy! Damn the soul to death! III How many times Does a Southern town Waste white genius To keep the Blacks down? How many times Does progress stop To find the maimed A mythical prop? How many times Do a Führer’s claws Dig up dry bones Of the gray Lost Cause? How many times Does the ermine class Throw scraps of hate To the starved white mass? Five roads, the spokes of a county wheel, Mortise the hub of our Courthouse Square: Our graybeards fable our Daniel Boone, Who brothered the red chiefs where Five dark and bloody frontier paths, Crossbones old as the skull of the moon, Witnessed the sacrament pipe of peace, Grim as the grin of a dead buffoon. Gone are scalping-knives, Gone are red frontiers, Gone are homeborn chiefs, Gone are pioneers. Yet the town Five Points Worships myths of race; Like the veldt men, hates Alien norm and face. Sky the Jim Crow sign, Dam the ghetto’s wrath, Gibbet freedom’s sons— Tell it not in Gath! Out of the burial-crags of night The felon winds hawk down; Their devil claws riprap the roofs That visor the town. The stores on Main Street lean, Tome to mummy tome; The houses squat like smoking hulls Half-convexed on a shoal of foam, And glowworm windows in the deaf-dumb streets Are greeting cards of home. Idols of the tribe Jail the spirit fast. Scorn of lesser breeds Flash and bone outlast. Vandal Z’s of wind, Beggar vale and hill, As the myths of race Loot the people’s will. Upon the courthouse Justice stands, Eyes fated not to see; The town clock christens now the first-born hour Of a day of hate to be. Nor man nor beast prowls in his world, But on the Courthouse Square A statue of the Lost Cause bayonets Contemporary air. The skull and bones Of yesterday Haunts those who travel The American Way. Nobler to grope In the dusk of dawn Than to stumble back In midnight’s spawn. Mein Kampf is not A bible writ With hand of gore And heart of grit. Mein Kampf is lepra That whores the soul, And the brothels of race Nordic bawds control. Yet thunderbolt hells Of chastening rods Smite ever Gomorrahs Of tribal gods!