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nja Aug 2019
She worships you. Your sinful indulgence and all.
She laps up your grey blood
and nourishes her flab on your staleness.
On her weaknesses and confessions you elevate yourself.
Higher.
The altar cracks.
She darts to heel your splinter but her limbs are broken under the collapse.
Upset at her lack of agency and engrossed in prayer she drowns herself in her own tears unknowingly.
In the end your ***** amassed.
An unexpected end to a story of fatherly shepherding.
See not every story has a Noah and his Arc,
most end with the egotistical on the altar, and the saints martyred in the gutter.
Sacrifice is still bloodshed.
Criticisms of the Church.
Julian Delia Apr 2019
Li kieku jerġa jiġi Kristu,
Lanqas jilħaq jitma ruħ.
Tilħqu taqfluh ġo skola,
Imsallab mill-punt tat-tluq.
Jilħaq jitlef ruħu fi xmara dmugħ,
Hekk kif il-ħajja jduq.
Jerġa jħoss x’jiġifieri in-niket,
Kif jarana naħxu dak li nibet,
L-ambjent tagħna, b’passjoni neqirduh.

Swied il-qalb;
Mument ta’ skiet,
Mument ta’ talb.

Qalb mogħdiet miksija bil-konkrit,
Nesprimi dar-rabja u dan l-inkwiet,
Ngħix il-ħajja mingħajr irbit.
Ngħid dak li nħoss,
Noħroġ dan il-kliem mingħajr intopp,
Nidgħi, meta xi gvern ireddali xi żobb.

Ilni ma nikteb,
Għax b’dan il-kliem ma nafx x’ħa nikseb.
Dil-kuxjenza li xogħla tniggżek,
X’għamilniela biex tfejniha, tgħid?
Għax jien nġibilha skużi, ġieli;
Ġieli, tgħidx kemm nigdeb.

* *

Vera ilni nipprova;
Nipprova naċċetta li nagħmel dak li d-dinja ta’ madwari tapprova,
Sa għamilt kors, ma nafx kif, imma ggradwajt u krejt it-toga.
Tgħallimt, u sirt għalliem,
Ktibt poeżiji li jħalluk bla kliem.
Ippruvajt insib il-paċi u s-sliem,
Qtajt il-pastażati bl-addoċċ,
Iż-żiblata ta’ bla ħsieb.

Xejn ma ħadem;
Xejn, kull ma għamilt inqridt,
Sa ġieli dħalt fid-dejn.
Qisni mort ngħix fi sqaq l-infern.
Donnu, d-destin tiegħi qisu ħaddiem tal-gvern.
Dejjem għajjien u dejjem m’hu sejjer imkien,
Destinat li nolqot in-noti b’mod stunat,
Imwelled f’did-dinja b’ritmu sfrenat.

Min jaf kif jitbellah Kristu,
Jekk jerġa jiġi ħdejna;
Jara kif it-tagħlim insejna,
Kif ngħixu ġo gaġġa mżejna,
Kif mingħalina li sirna s-sidien ta’ dil-gżira ċkejkna.

L-ewwel, inwerwruh bl-injoranza grassa,
Bil-passivita’ ta dil-***** ċassa.
Imbagħad, ngħaxxquh b’kemm hawn minnha jmutu bil-ġuħ,
Biex ma ngħidux *** f’liema direzzjoni sejrin,
Kif ilna għaddejjin; ‘l-aqwa li jien minn ***!’

Ejja ngħidu li ma nsallbuhx, ħa;
Kristu probabbli jtiha għal isfel, li kieku.
Qabel ma jerġa jiġi, jiġġieled ma missieru;
Jgħidlu ‘le, ma rridx ninżel!’

Qalbna, il-qofol mikul bin-nekrożi, tinten,
Bil-mewt madwarna, tittanta u tiżfen.
X’saltna t’Alla; mhux li kien,
Mhux li kien nerġgħu niksbuha maż-żmien.

____________________________________________

‘If­ Christ Came Back’

If Christ came back, he wouldn’t even have the time to feed a single soul. You’d lock him up in a school, crucified from the get-go. He would drown in a river of his own tears, as soon as he tastes life. He would experience sorrow anew, witnessing us destroying that which has blossomed, the very environment which we passionately eradicate.

Blackened, sorrowful heart; a moment of silence, a moment of prayer.

Among pathways covered in concrete, I express this rage and this anxiety, living life with no attachments. I say what I feel, pulling out these words without any resistance, swearing whenever some government shoves its **** down my throat.

I haven’t written in a while, because I don’t really know what I’m going to achieve with these words. This conscience, whose job is to sting, what have we done to it to switch off? I give it excuses, mostly; sometimes, I really do lie to it, a lot.

* *

I’ve really been trying; trying to accept doing what the world around me approves of, I even finished a degree, I don’t know how, but I graduated and rented a toga. I learned, and I became a teacher, too; I wrote poems that leave you speechless. I tried to find peace and serenity, I cut out senseless debauchery, the mindless ******.

Nothing worked; nothing, all I did was destroy myself, going into debt, even. It’s like I started to live in hell’s alley. It seems my destiny is like a government employee; always tired and going nowhere. Destined to hit notes off-key, born in a world with a relentless rhythm.

Who knows how shocked Christ would be, if he ever came back. He’d see how we forgot all his teachings, how we live in decorated cages, how we think we’ve become the lords of this tiny island.

First, we’d terrify him with our crass ignorance, with the passivity of the dazed masses. Then, we’ll make him feel worse when he sees how many of us are starving to death, not to mention the direction we’ve taken, how long we’ve been going: ‘as long as I come out on top, eh!’

Let’s say we wouldn’t crucify him, maybe; Christ would probably jump off a cliff, if anything. Before coming back, he’d argued with his father, ‘no, I don’t want to go back there again!’ Our hearts are rotting in their core, necrotic, with death dancing around us, taunting us. God’s glory? Yeah, right; if only, if only we could find that again, in due time.
Happy Easter, a*sholes.
awknight Jul 2018
standing across from me
a room full of sound
everything is so quiet

folded arms scare me

but then something changes
I see your eyes
they are scared too

I dont feel so alone

look into my heart
see what no one has
truth of outpouring
emotions and demons

you are sacred cloth
          I reach for you
you are holy water
          Baptize me
you are a crucifix
          I worship you
you are christ
          Save me

they burn at the sight of you
Lindsay Thomas Dec 2015
Who was the first person to decide
what's right and what's wrong?
Not the picky choosy **** we think
Came straight from the Bible.
The book that's been translated across
many languages, cultures, and general
beliefs?
I mean the first person.
The first group of people that decided
having a full life is wrong.
Being yourself is wrong.
Wanting is wrong.
Yearning, dreaming, achieving...
All wrong.
Who decided being a woman
was so wrong that we should be condemned?
I should be able to **** who I want
and not be defined by my "number".
I shouldn't have to be asked that question.
I should be getting high-fived for having
Consensual *** with the guy who
makes my coffee.
I should be applauded for having ***
with multiple men.
I should be shown the same level of
respect as any man out there.
But my number is vital, isn't it?
Well, I say **** all of that.
**** a whole bunch of it.
**** anyone you want.
******* do anything you want to do.
Don't hurt anyone, and it shouldn't
be anyone's ******* business but yours.
Jesus ******* Christ.
**** him, too.
**** any imaginary thing you want.
That's what ******* is for.
**** yourself, for God's sake!
He wanted his people to be happy, right?
Free yourself from the chains of
modern society!
Find people just like you, and don't let them go.
They will be strong for you,
hold their heads high for you.
Defend you against nay-sayers and party poopers.
Stand behind you when confronted with
mass objection.
We are the lovers, and the fighters,
and we are many.
Band together and **** society.
You know,
For God's sake.

lmt

— The End —