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.

Forgotten Gods [Day 30]

The uncertainty of universal lies

resolutes itself much like a hungry snake

around the skin of its prey-

the unseen, the unknowing, the uncharted,

finding recharges in people, in sacrifice, in sickening blood,

till the conviction spreads to the limbs of their dead,

till the screams are chants of appraise, of love;

cherish the old gods and the new,

cherish the dedicated deaths, the forseeable lies,

one day, the world must be forgotten,

and only then can you hope to die.

The Blood Of The Covenant [Day 13]

Mother talks, mother speaks, mother tells
her children all her disciples, all the holy words
picked and christened with sincerity and respect:
mother talks, mother speaks, mother tells,
till her children are asleep.

Around the merry go round, there’s each:
the God, the Messiah, the Mohammad,
a fine, fine gathering- parts of a whole,
parts of the parts divided in their loud whispers
of faith, of love, of trust, of brotherhood

In the garden which it sits in, there’s no greenish
green, but quite a lot of yellow: a dirty withering exhaust
and the stark red of the merry go round is the bloody
brown of rusted promises, stained with the air of lies,
defeat, cheat, or sheer barbarity, quite bitter-sweet,

The sky’s a jolly fellow, and though even it has remorseful days-
years, centuries in this case- it keeps quiet in its routine of
sunshine, sunset, no rain: the Gods demand sacrifices, they demand
love, faith served with a fine and mutual taste of inhumanity, but you
must remember, the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb:

Mother talks, mother speaks, mother tells
her children all her disciples, all the holy words
picked and christened with sincerity and respct:
mother talks, mother speaks, mother tells,
till her children demand death.