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maria Jun 18


it seems that all of us are burning,
     but not with holy fire, not anymore
there's nothing godly about the way
     we killed all the sacred things in the world
and buried them along with
     the flowers and suffering from the graves we robbed,
we steal people's screams and make it our own
     and we call it sympathy, we call it Goodness, but
are we not all in conspiracy with violence?
how could anyone still kiss anyone,
     knowing their lips are smeared with blood?
many of us grew up thinking that
     we'll be Saint Joan, and
many of us now are the same people
     who spat and cursed at Christ as he bled on the Cross,
     or who simply looked on, silently damning him.
everyday there are people dying on the streets;
everywhere in the world, new martyrs
     are being made, and none of them will ever
     be named to sainthood
they will all be swallowed by History
     long before their bodies return to
     the dust they were molded from,
long before those glassy eyes stop begging: stop and look
     look at us, look at the world and how
     you've ravaged it.
what's left of Eden now?
     nothing but unmarked graves.
somewhere in the world there is
     a plant dying from being overwatered,
and somewhere in the world there is
     a child dying from thirst.
in my dream I faced God
at the Gates of Heaven and dared to ask:
      "Why did you allow this?"
and His only reply was an echo ––
     Why did you allow this?
Why, why, why


– n.
god exits.
A-frame bridge, no.254.
Why did they send the cavalry of the Crown,
not a chef adept at jigsaws?
Ontologically opting out of the
Damocles' fleatouch 1st person pronoun.
Ache kind of socialow luckemia
has culminated in this reckoning,
this personal brevima, the scheduling
of my release from this 40-year-old-****** hellhole.
Milk slit strike at the coconut shy of souls.
From a brittly hylic, embittered high place,
velocity tenderises me once & forall outofplace.

Such a beautifulday I must be serious,
the sun
vs.
Pipistrelle Daddy Destro:
for a few seconds, equals. The News Of The World won,
David Scarboro.
To spite the 1 I pined for ad infinights,
outofhiding in my vespertalactite,
to go down cyancowled
l/ sunnier owls,
down down t'azure turnups o'er ******
sock clouds of birdman w/ deflated waterwings.

We're not talking flash-flight, falling w/ (sky's
cramped) style, Golden Gate weightlessness, wirefu
knotted matter maquettes in jazz gravity.
More SPLAT! l/ birdcrap or a crap bird,
claret scree, ****** mannequin. Blue
remembered
hamon of a sayonara
skyarama
impales the seppuku diver upon
broadestsword, the East Anglian plateau alone.
Or fool's gold fall. Quadriplegic at end of the rainbow
(******* ineluctable rainbows).  

Join the fall & fall & noyade of lemmpires
on the mal voyage to clay again.
Out of der freie geist & into the fire
via impact, if we bolt this bottomless hollow
to be chastised by childabusers Charlemagne
chartered. But who's playing follow
the leperdoctrinist anymore?  I'll chin
the sun heavier than Hedd Wyn's
mourning cloaked Chair, as I take the earnest lemming way,
prince des nuees, rather than walkaway,
crippled for life.
Keep albatroshin'? Ol' bor, toss yourself off

a cliff rident that fits & locks clithridi-hate.
Or the Iron Bridge or some other local highledge
for the coming true of weight
when local legends exit cute.
Nice hand aids swigs for cynic the edge
hugs, but, lo, Green Hill Zone's killzone. Put
on a happyface l/ Spike at the asylum
or do it, dona nobis pacem.
Raspberry suicide notables,
gooseberry suicide notables,
for whom quiet
chap fallen finds his pizzazzphalt.

Fast brakes of champions prefer their egos sunnysideup,
but my last basket, she left w/ the very 1st *******.
Tell my mother it wasn't suicide: 'oops!'
Ego squeals creanced to a limping quacker,
human Kohoutek who fuzzily thuds
into circus teacup of Wensum, pate de parkour.
From a phrontistery
rookery
for emo dodos, sneerical bartizan,
I'll vertically powerflounce, pronk like Zebedee Zyban
at the speed of gary t'wards bananaskindeep peaceofmind
over precipice of all the cabinwalls I've feverishly climbed.

Tell my mum it wasn't suicide,
I was Brodie Fayed.
& that the Deep State was behind my head-
er off the Iron Bridge or some local highledge
(all the birdies flyed
from a beachy hedge).
I
had a nightmare I could fly.
The peace that passes all understanding
is not a soft landing.
Gravity, be
my supercomputer of mahasamadhi.
_
1. It’s not so much a home for us
As home for our deceit:
Affirming every guiltless heart,
Distracting from defeat.
It’s found in lands of apathy
Where feelings limit thought,
And standards thought impersonal
Rely on what is not.

2. A place where temples will adore
The inner light inside:
Where you directly see the world,
Directly through your pride.
A place of icons that demand
A greater life than yours:
A life of goods and happiness,
Of wanting more and more.

3. A place where God is glorified
The most through our content,
Where suffering lament will be
Portrayed as deviant.
A place where God is glorified
When we have self-esteem;
Where trust in self is trust in him:
A god inside our scheme.

4. A place where God is worshipped most
When we try hard to touch
A presence we’re convinced is Him:
A feeling found in us.
A place where we’re convinced that faith
Is all we need obtain,
But then define faith as good works
And love only our chains.

5. A place where truth defined as less
Directs us downward to
The dimmer lights of narrowness,
A world of residue;
A world where truth has boundaries
Beyond which God can’t go,
For human thought is fallible
And Scripture’s all we know.

6. The prophets in our icons speak
Of truth without a Pope;
Tradition that’s as old as you,
Where meaning is a trope.
Where we connote, we don’t define
But by effects alone.
We’re hoping that the essence will
Eventu’lly be known.

7. Seduced, we tend to run to self,
The selves we wish we were:
With freedom, wealth, and pleasure and
A life fulfilled, secure.
But freedom’s just a neutral tool,
And wealth is merely means,
And pleasure’s mere result of good,
The Good it cannot be.

8. So when the church pursues these things
As visions of the Good,
They choose to play off barons’ lies
Instead of something true.
They build themselves an idol that
Is dressed in Words of God,
But paint His face in colors of
A cultural facade.

9. Where are the prophets of the old,
Who knew that truth is full:
That truth without tradition will
Be incommensur’ble?
That language, genre, meaning will
Be dead without a guide,
That texts alone will never speak
Past cultural divides?

10. Where are the princes of the old
Who though seduced by power,
Would, when condemned, kneel in the snow
And beg in rags for hours?
Where are the laymen, who when wrong,
Won’t split off from the Vine?
Who, blinded by the light of forms,
Won’t run back to their binds?

11. What happened to the saints portrayed
On icons made of gold?
Whose lives were good and true and real,
Not poured in market’s mould?
Why do we sing of present Lamb,
When altar’s absent from
A stage that points to podiums,
That’s filled with pipes and drums?

12. If we deserve what we produce,
Receiving undeserved,
Then pedestals should not be, for
Production’s sake, reserved.
Unless we think God owes us what
Was given on the cross,
Then worship Him, not music, words,
Not feelings, dreams or thoughts.

13. But then what choice remains when we
Reject the miracle,
Of accidents remaining same,
While essence changes full?
And when we strip the altars bare,
And throw away the bread,
We **** our God yet worship him:
A thought inside our head.

14. So those who want to find what’s true
And find a God that’s real,
Must pull the nails from Wittenberg
And cross themselves and kneel.
Five hundred years of modern pride
Have found in Paris home.
Unless we want to live there too,
We must return to Rome.
1-2. Thesis: Modern Christianity is a mask. It reduces God to self.
3-5. Examples of reductionism common to modern religion.
6-8. The problem with reduced theology.
9-11. What's missing.
12. A theology reduced to the individual is a theology of pride. It's why modern Christianity can't help but showboat.
13. Something greater than the individual was always central to premodern worship. Modernity tossed that away.
Sean M O'Kane Nov 2018
It's a phrase I often playfully use to describe my queer self.
("Were you ever?"my beloved Alison uniformly says in jest).
But now it seems unusually apt in another way:
As I swann around this empty house, the decor, the photos, the ornaments and old perfume bottles overwhelm me.
My head is brimming with memories as I glance past these fragments of our shared lives.
My loss is palpable and yet inescapable under this roof.
She surrounds us on the walls, hanging over us with her beaming smile amidst the family photos.
I want to escape but I can't:
In a mad way I want to believe that something of these relics around us can bring her back somehow.
She did after all carry something of the old Irish paganism with her.
But, no, this ancient shamanism is sadly absent in a room drowned out by every token of Catholicism you can think of.
It's all too much for this first born to take and yet she is still here in the tiny gaps of these precious artefacts.  
Hidden away where you can't see her.
So, no, being honest right now - I'm not quite straight yet.
The head and heart will realign soon but not with this gnawingly painful grief.
Pray for me.
Jeff S Sep 2018
...And kirchéglise(Notre) dame
   o u r l a d y m y l a d y
encyl-able, Pope or Pope or popedeux
and vindicate the waysteland
   My caska is openclosed!
(pews is pause is putride and prodigious)
Et tout-en commun?Gizerly pharaoh HA
lf gone.
Source-error of Oz
Ymandias
and dust, and dustinction

   god pull downwhich?

or fleurs-de-litigation.
Vini, vu/gesehen, conquered/konkeri?
And tot
And mort
and trunks gefallen.
Fantast-asy—I flail.
pause

S e m p i ternam.
Merry Sep 2018
You say your God is your rock and your light
But light can be blinding
And rock may roll
No longer do I feel faith
In an outback church house
Singing with the preachers
Francie Lynch Apr 2018
My friend's Father,
Who's just that,
Has a Papa Francis.
And her entire congregated family
Won't acknowledge her
Very existence.
How can she communicate.
There's a crack in the crucifix,
And it's splitting, running up the wood,
Past the cruciform,
To the Head.
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