Wednesday, December 5, 2012

The Ritual


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.