[I have no idea where this came from, and I don’t really know what it is. A poem? The skeleton of a song? Not really sure. But I thought I’d share it anyway.]
Sponge the dryness from these lips.
Sour disinfectant burns
the rips and cracks and tears,
the gnawing fears,
the hollow absolutions.
For they do know what they do,
and no pious platitude
can save the unrepentant thief,
or shake belief in unbelief.
See: the needle-dicks of rich men
prick the temple-cloth
and rend us all.
Three hours of night?
A day? A year? A century?
(Their camels balk
and sweat holier waters.)
And history repeats
raised from the dead
to shamble down fear-shrouded streets
in deathless search of spongy treats.
Who bears a spear with edge enough
to pierce those bullshit-swollen guts
and spill that reeking discharge?
(We will know the unfit candidates:
they’ll be the ones raising their hands.)
Behold the science of our time,
a secular faith whose communion wine
is spiked with Rohypnol:
Its apostles spread the call
to put faith only in one creed: