Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things.
This will be round two of poetry on my weekly blog. I'll try and do this monthly, but only if you promise to hate it.
A monument to God,
as my Father would say.
Like pornography for capitalists
you lure in the half-hearted
by elevating them above the filth of existence.
built your business,
so keep in mind
that you tricked your kind by being garish,
lining your pockets with the bourgeoisie of your parish.
A harbor from friction,
the sickly pink hues of your walls scream of fiction.
Wrapping yourselves in your own sense of virtue.
Save yourselves in a flagrant swell
as if numbers alone spared your souls from hell.
Never was comeliness so overdone,
more phony than Lucifer
cast from the sun.
And how can you sanction,
your actions so quick
building your spires to Babel
with life from the sick
and the poor
with wealth never your’s.
your marble pews have lied,
leading them inside.
While Chained To A Fence.
While chained to a fence,
they slowly beat him with the backs of their guns
until he was blind.
Chains linking to a chain-linked fence,
hanging there crying
he froze forever.
Papers recounted impersonal facts
“Community harbors disdain pertaining to local hate crime.”
Conveying their best in passionless jargon,
but allowing the reader leeway
to see how very terrified the boy must have been.
They couldn’t say that he pissed his pants though.
How could they have known?
And then all of our shortcomings were unmistakable.
The entire reputation of Jesus Christ was being paraded
on a fourteen inch piece of cardboard
clutched between his bony hands.
And as his clenched fist quivered above the rabble
his trembling lips may well have been barking the word “nigger”,
or “gook”, or “spick”.
Instead he clung to his own axiom,
that God hates fags.
And how implausible,
the unrelenting carelessness
that someone would actually picket at the funeral,
of a boy who had been chained to a fence
and beaten to death with guns.
His righteousness was never in question,
a kindred transgressor
his reckoning would be with God like the rest of us.
So wave high your signs,
you self-possessed sirens of rancor.
You who have taken the entire obligation
of our savior upon yourself,
but forgotten... salvation.