Let it not be said that his rhetoric drifts
out of focus on
Earth for a casual minute—
nor that just retribution is not terribly swift
for those who
disrespect his intimate business;
as the new mother, tethered away from her child,
deliberately eats
what she doesn’t want
to mortify
dread that she might be other
then a perfect Satan’s gofer, starving and
wild—
infanticide-schemes, inverted taunts,
floorboards arranged to make room
for another.
Pentagrams engraved on truth, justice-seats,
masks woven
tightly of paint mixed in flesh,
abattoirs filled with poison-dwarf sweets,
histories out of
nothingness, made mesh.
What are they scripting? For who, for what?
That all the false
idols, set in a line, might dance
tangled,
backwards, to all that they dread?
How is he drifting? He’s straight, he’s shut
against any spook
holds a heavenly chance
of imposing
their visions, or raising the dead.
You’re a ruddy old Big Man Downstairs, you,
fibs so jejune I
can’t hear but to laugh—
and your buttons are pinned upon somebody who
mistook all the
fame, and the fortunate path.
Why governments swoon before truth is clear—
you set the bar
too high, and low at once,
no innocent
victim can face all the dumbness—
why all of these souls from downstairs, not here,
can’t say a lick
out of being a dunce,
define for the
ages what being a bum is.
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