Wednesday, September 2, 2015

Nazarene...a poem

I’ve turned my water into wine
Her head’s in the TV
Kids’ brains soaking in jars of formadevideohyde
Little boys spread out on crosses
Little girls spread out on beds
Bloody sandals stepping over bloody heads

I’m dead
But writing this
You’re dead
But reading it
What can be done?
Never less than nothing
Always more than nothing

Nails piercing into little wrists
Penises ripping into little wombs
Machetes chopping through cracking bones
You’re making me sick as you read this
I’m making you sick because all I can do
Is write these trite, easy little words
Or is it?

I can’t do much
But donate to those who will take the place of those who should
Those who can have their hands tied
And their balls soaking in jars of formaldehyde
And you and I will plug our ears and cover our eyes
And leave the voting to the dead
And pray when we see the spray paint on our thresholds

No comments:

Post a Comment