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,
meths up, eats what she doesn’t want
to mortify dread that she might be
other
then a perfect Satan’s gofer,
brain-washed, wild—
infanticide-schemes, inverted taunts,
floorboards arranged under
carpets, defiled.
Pentagrams engraved on
truth's justice-seats,
masks woven wanly of paint-wearing flesh;
abattoirs littered with
poison-dwarf sweets,
histories chopped out for infants, near death;
what are they scripting of filth, for what?
That all the false idols, set in a line,
might dance
tangled, backwards, to all that lends dread?
How is he drifting? He’s
straight, he’s shut
against any heart holds a heavenly chance
of imposing their visions, getting bardic in bed.
You’re a ruddy old Big Man
Downstairs, you,
fibs so jejune I can’t hear but to laugh—
your buttons are pinned upon
somebody who
mistook all the fame for a fortunate
path.
Why governments swoon before
truth is clear—
you set the bar too high, and low at once,
no
innocent cleric can face all the dumbness—
why all of these drones from
downstairs, not here,
can’t spit out a lick out of being a dunce,
define for the ages what being a bum is.
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