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
plaster walls.
The Doves died
when they too
swallowed the silver coins.
