Rage

Come one, come all, today a new God is born:
in the cheap streets of a brothel
there lies a pack of strings,
pick your poison, carve your sword-
the riches you demand, the women you desire,
scream your name in praise-
that strength of worship, of namesakes-
the motels, the bars, cheap liquor and neon
brighten modeled lips which pray in the name
of people who sleep alone in their hearts;

Strangers form alliances in the tyranny of deceit,
a hand held, a string snapped tight to the brewery
where wishes, not people, prepare honey, mead and things all sweet;

Gods will tell you of a bloody sacrifice;
men will tell you of faith; a child, of beauty;
a demon will speak of love and promises you didn’t keep:
there, in the pages of faith and belief,
lies the secret to demise, and to believing-
men teach men of rage,
but the fruit of life cannot obey to living,
men teach men of rage,
for it is vital to becoming:
a parade of lonesome men parry,
each calling his God who breathes fire
into his home, into his woman and children,
till there is none but agony and desire to cease.