When the Saviour sleeps,
He does not dream.
He is not disturbed by
the whispered prayers of the faithful,
nor by the screams of the weak:
Our Father who aren’t in Heaven
hollowed be Thy name.
Please be seated and
receive the sacrament in paper cups:
black blood shed for you and
mixed with sugar and cream.
Ashes to ashtrays, fingers to lips;
Christ is a cancer in some unlucky lungs.
We accept comparisons between humans and sheep,
lying at the feet of a giant machine.
We are birds, frantically lining our nests
with expensive bits of string and
slivers of semi-precious stone;
tinfoil and tourniquets plugged into
The Doves died
when they too swallowed the silver coins.