Some Work Not Unbecoming Those That Strive With Gods

Updated on June 20, 2017

I have seen many minds weaned on the tit

of some holy writ

singing the praises of golden streets paved through the cumulonimbus

and awaiting the damnation of homosexuals,


teeth barred, barred like the pearly gates,

the tongue Saint Peter himself

nodding condolences to the goats

palming indulgences for his Holy Rock.

They cut their wrists – a parting of the Red Sea –

tracing their family tree back to Moses,

bleeding out in a narcotic haze of exploited guilt –

the Pathos of religion.

The sin of pleasure and the pain of redemption will scour the soul –

those virginal souls peeled and seeded

revealed as gelatinous grape-flesh,

an embryo of perfected ablutions.

But they are celibate in protest only

they are fucked by fate every hour.

Their belief is bald, reflecting back to them their faltering faces,

their naked and ashamed faith that forces them to their knees

at the altar, in their closets, over the toilet,

praying for humility and a third house in Maui.

But kneeling is for ass-fucking – don’t you know? –

and lapping at mirages in the desert

after forty days on a diet of stones.

The madness of one is disease. The madness of many is religion.

A revolution! Of Industry! Of Science!
To strive to seek to find and not to yield.

Still some Joshuas toot their horns in protest,

but the dispassionate lab coats only tap their toes to the tune outside the window.

We must turn from this Golgotha, this affected crossroads.

There is no surrender! There is no submission!

We shall not die upon crosses, but in our beds,

or in the garden, or at dinner – a meal of baked chicken, green beans, and the miracle of wine.

With tannic, fruity breath I remind them to give thanks.

What poor conversationalists! – only talking of faith and Iron Age myths – so I cry for madder music and for stronger wine.

I vanish down the bottle like Alice,

their tittering becoming whale-song through the glass.

Tender with drink I have the urge to kiss the glutted virgin to my right

and we romp past midnight through every bed sheet,

ecstasy blooming on our lips, burning cigarette holes into our clothes.

Forgive me Father for I have sinned!

I have sinned with the sin of love –

full of heat, naked on the grass, half-bared in the alley,

weeping and laughing on the kitchen table.

I have lost the credulity for heaven.

I have lost the conviction for hell.

Only the dirt, only the worms, the West Wind,

and the smooth valley between snow-capped breasts.

Oh generation of mine! Do not let your last rites be

the lofty incantations of gibberish from the cavern of a windless man!

Do not let your final cough be for a petty Eunuch in the sky!

Rage! Rage! against the killing of the light of reason!

Dare them all to condemn your love-making

whilst they clamor and burn each other alive

over geographical semantics, condoms in Africa, and Webster’s revision of ‘marriage.’

Let them froth, let them quale in holy rage,

let them scream for holy war and a two-millennia dead Jew to please come visit Missouri.

Their echoes too will die, aborted in their throats

at our absolute reply for their own sins to be counted,

for their own judgment to be measured against them,

for the Angel of Death to see the blood on their hands and not pass them over.

Let them weep and gnash their teeth for Eternity at our peaceful graves.

Let their ears smoke with the silent repose of our deaths.

Let the unconditional love of their Pater stoke the fires of their personal hells,

and let them greet Eternity’s unblinking stare as we

gently close our eyes with a sigh.

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