"baptists" poems
The old order changeth, yielding place to new
-Tennyson, Idylls of the King
Like dinosaurs our institutions gasp
In spasms of existential death; they pass
At first unnoticed by the casual unobserver
Who trips over a covenant that isn’t there
If you vote they give you a sticker
The ephemeral Constitution changed
Like sweaty skivvies by each president
Law libraries catalogued for pulp
By obedient functionaries in tees
If you vote they give you a sticker
The faithful escorted out of the cathedral
By a bored security guard on overtime
The altar linens for sale at Goodwill
And the sanctuary repurposed on T.V.
If you vote they give you a sticker
Some of The Just Plain Folks cheer for the Reds
And the others cheer only for the Blues
As the reincarnation of Jack Chick
Blesses their four-wheelers and plastic caps
If you vote they give you a sticker
Election placards on abandoned buildings
Promise again prosperity for all
The **** lab cooks behind The Kute Kidz
Private Academy of the Dance and Math
If you vote they give you a sticker
An outreach of the Bright Light Free Will
Missionary Temple of the Lord Jesus Christ
Of the Lamb Sanctified 501C The Reverend Doctor Master Bishop Billy-Bob Hairdo PhD, DD a-brangin’ Messages and His Esteemed Lady Apostle Heather
If you vote they give you a sticker
And blessed be the Holy AR-15
God gave to His People to defend themselves
Here in the freest country in the world
Which you can find behind the barbed-wire fence
If you vote they give you a sticker
While fleets of luxury presidential jets
Arc high over our public housing projects
Reminding us of our prosperity
Here in the richest country in the world
If you vote they give you a sticker
And them Jews for Jesus I guess they’re all right
But them other Jews they just ain’t no good
Nor them Cath’lics nor them Mormons neither
And don’t you get me started on them Baptists
(We seem to have been otherwise engaged)
“The old order changeth, yielding place to new” –
(But neither cares at all for me or you)
But if you vote they give you a sticker
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 7:30 AM UTC
Dew drops sit patiently on the earth
My thoughts race, incomplete
without a story line.
What’s the difference between an animal
and a man, you ask?
Men can carry guns
The revolution falls short as the much anticipated
Apocalypse begins
Zombies moan and groan as their limbs
creak with their shuffling art.
They say zombies are the living dead
Why, you ask?
They’re dead on the inside.
Like Davy Jones, they’ve ripped their hearts out
and hid them away from the world.
I’ve met a zombie or few.
They inject sunburnt life into their veins;
They inhale the emotions they can’t convey
I see right through their drug induced façade.
Life can’t be bought because the government can’t even afford it.
Kudos to China for figuring that out
A joke tumbles from the lips of the self-righteous
An apology pours from the mouth of the condemned
A question slides from the tongue of the forgetful
Remember me?
I jumped because the Hermes of death seeped into my mind
Go down in flames or fall for a thousand Arabian nights
Calm before the storm chosen over
Panic during the tornado.
Take the credit, you ******** and we’ll take your lives.
Congratulations, Westboro Baptists are humming dirges
at your last bed
You’ll be missed.
Now what, you ask?
Come on home, boys,
I’ve got a country to please
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 1:27 PM UTC
He was baptized in whiskey
and gunsmoke aroma
Took up with a Cherokee woman
Quite friskey
Down in the Territory of Oklahoma
Tired of one too many killings
He took his side iron off
Wrapped it in its holster folded
Inside a gun oiled rag
Replaced it with his Mother's Bible
From within his saddle bag
Listened to that smart Indian woman
Who said he'd hung around the Territory
Too long
And if we don't skeedaddle
You'll be hangin' longer than you want
Smartest woman he'd ever known
She'd heard there's no law or religion
West of the Pecos and beyond
So they headed out to Texas
To preach the gospel to outlaws
****** and poor Mexican Catholics
Wrote off the Oklahoma Territory Baptists
Whose thick hides hide drunken sinners
Ridin' hard and fast her buckskin skirt
Above her thighs
Ridin' with a winner
Dark hair flowing behind
Ridin' hard to in his sight keep her
Such beauty that could stir the
***** and mind
Of even an old saddle preacher
r
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 6:39 AM UTC
I am a Christian.
Do not look at me differently,
Do not roll your eyes or scoff.
Do not lump me in with every other Christian
You have ever met
Or heard of.
Do not assume that I am like the Westboro Baptists,
Or that I only believe what I do because of my parents.
Do not question my sanity.
Do not assume you know my views or my reasons,
But please, ask.
Do not suppose I will be extreme,
Or that I live under a rock.
Do not think I am naïve or a saint,
Or that I expect everyone to live
By what I think is right.
Do not presume that I fit your stereotypes, whatever they might be.
Do not take for granted that I have no idea how to have fun.
Do not associate church or my faith with being boring.
Do not suppose that you understand me or the depths of what I believe.
Please just do not assume that because you know one, you know all.
I am a Christian.
Ask me why.
Ask me about my thoughts on the world,
Or on political issues.
I will gladly tell you whatever you’d like to know.
Ask me about the wonderful moments of God I see around me.
Ask me what evidence I have.
Tell me all about what you believe.
Talk to me without reservations or awkwardness.
Ask me what traditions my family has, or how we celebrate holidays.
Ask me what makes me different.
Laugh with me about the children I babysit during Bible study.
Cry with me when someone passes away.
Look with me to see the ways God is working in the world.
Give thanks with me before dinner.
Join me at church one day to see what it’s like for yourself.
Love with me all the lost people in the world.
Love yourself.
I am a Christian.
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 12:01 PM UTC
There’s a corner of my basement
I can see it from the couch
It’s a doorway of light
Opening to a stairwell
A light is on near my bed
It’s small
A phone perhaps
I have headphones on
So It’s hard to sleep comfortably
I like to nestle my head into the crook of my arm
I stare at a worn down drop-ceiling
Those two lights are on either side of my vision
I keep waiting
I keep rolling into the cracks
I’ve had to adjust the cushions far too many times
A smile
A warmth
My eyes
I don’t want to swallow
The jar is closed
Pandora’s box of light opened while I streamed blues on Pandora
And I see the lights go static
They bend into each other in the dark
I wave my fingers in front of my face
I’ve probably killed a few brain cells here
Definitely.
Sorry Mom
I was bored and rubber cement is only 3.97
I’m drunk on a cleanse from oxygen
I’m sure my nostrils will thank me later
My brain could use an adhesive
Flexibility would bond loose ends
And repair the divisiveness
I have my hands in everything
And I can’t remember the last time I stepped in dog ****
But a hand in phylogeny is a backhand to Baptists
A hand in salvation is a slap in the face to the Darwinists I love everyday
I have a toast!
To the moment the rapture brings about our extinction my friends!
At least everyone thinks I’m stupid.
Right in the middle of the room is the right place to be
A bullseye for stone chuckers and monkey *******
A hand out for the druggies
And a jab at the churches who aren’t doing anything
A round of applause for cruel irony
And a finger turned up in a creative way to everyone who’s laughing at the episode
Vishnu would have a hay day
And I could use the extra hands.
Jesus’s are tied- I mean nailed up at the moment
But when miracles don’t happen anymore
Go read first Samuel, and you’ll see all this **** went down before
And there’s another cycle
History repeats itself
In through the nose and out through your mouth
Just keep a nostril over the jar
And don’t die
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 1:58 PM UTC
bah bah black sheep... ok... the black sheep knuckled you to sleep
and now you’re asking for directions using a map and not a satellite navigation
across europe, esp. tremendous in germany near dortmund
and the rhine cities getting confused... but that’s no reason
to drive with ease from new jersey to florida with a glum pickers' pride
en route... i can play the ‘i spy with my little’ game into midnight passing me and spare myself inventive optics -
like shadow like hallucination in consistency, both flimsy,
i can recognise the real filth from packaged recyclables
from the orient.
well there’s that and there’s old russell the schizoid affective
outside tesco drinking a bottle of old speckled hen
and talking about snowfalls... 3 / 4 years ago last time i spotted
saint clause... i slipped and imagined myself breaking a knee...
didn’t happen... what happened was was a clearer truth:
why this fake image stimulant... i cant’ watch the stars
but have to subconsciously watch candy crush?
it’s **** i want the days within the insignia of war,
i don’t want my subconscious patented with candy crush,
i want the stars to remain... better an autocrat than a technocrat...
at least a human face... adolf touchy-feely,
here we go...
i imagine all those rivers of heraclitus concerning a coordinate
known as a waterfall... and post-humous exactness expressing peace...
then i spot picasso on the roof outside my bedroom window...
i support his elevation through evangelicalism from halo to angels wings...
you know what the three wise babylonians said...
you scared them to egypt you idiot announcing reign of the ditto,
you scared them them with myrrh, melchior you’re already close to malachi,
that will do... look at it... it’s babylonian already...
it’s a babylon of orthodox christianity (greek / russian), catholicism,
protestantism, baptists, pantheists and other offshoots
like being mormon!
well you can never make an omelette by the dozen involved
without asking the thirteenth egg: chicken or egg first? crucifix?! oh.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 8:57 PM UTC
God is a woman,
The world cannot hide,
All of her children,
Will love her in time,
Ten commandments,
Written on her thigh,
God is a woman,
And heaven is her lie,
I worship her blindly,
Just to see her again,
No prayers inside me,
But I'll say "Amen",
No absolution,
For angels who can't fly,
Hell hath no fury,
Like a woman in the sky,
I walk through her temple,
With the baptists of pride,
Where the alter resembles,
A runaway bride,
On my knees,
I'm there begging every night,
Waiting for the love,
Of my afterlife,
And if I turn a sinner,
Would death run any faster?
An eye for an eye,
And tears for her laughter,
From pagan to priest,
Yet I'm only human,
If love's a religion,
Then God is a woman.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 8:52 AM UTC
Dear soldier,
Though my heart is a warrior
It’s been broken one too many times
By the broken people who tried their very best to fix it
I am a lonely traveller looking for a home
A home for the leftovers
For those that were left over during the long walk for freedom
But freedom is a hard fruit to come by
Especially for those seeking salvation
A new foundation
To lay their fallen bricks anew and start over again
I’ve heard that silence is concession.
Though I guess that the other day when we kissed in silence
I must have miscommunicated my affection towards you
Maybe I will wait for you there by the riverside then?
Where the air tastes sweeter than the fruit life bears
Maybe there both of our heads will get dipped in the purest of waters;
And maybe then will we be saved
Maybe the Baptists can convince you to take off the pain you wear so well-
How it hangs so loosely on your fading shoulders.
You used to be so big and strong
But you are getting so thin now my love
I asked you to eat
But you told me that freedom was only for the forgiven
And that?
That was a hard fruit to swallow
I wrote you a letter the other day
Written in an ink so peculiar a shade of red-
The richest of reds, though only fit for a soldier such as you
I came home from the forbidden forest with a basket filled with a variety of fruits:
Love
Freedom
Happiness
And most importantly forgiveness
I offered you the entire basket for it was a basket for the hurt
One for Soldiers such as yourself
I begged you to eat because it was too painful to watch you whither
But you looked up at me with those heavy- same-tired eyes
And told me that you were leaving.
I guess the fruit I bore wasn’t ripe enough to be consumed by sinners yet.
Like a caged bird sings a song of sorrow,
I too shall sing many lamentations in your honour
I will tell the people that you were braver than most,
Even though I felt your fears when our hands touched
I will tell them that their father was a fighter
A soldier is what I will tell them
And when they ask me where you are at the dinner table
I will tell them to wait patiently by the riverside for their Father
Because I know that freedom is a hard fruit to come by
Especially for worn down souls such as yourself.
By: Lulwama Kuto Mulalu
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 4:16 PM UTC
The New York Times
ran an article
on Catholicism today.
I read it while
I was on the toilet.
My grandpa just
joined up.
He said they get him.
The **** Baptists
waste too much water
and they don't even
drink beer.
I knew a Catholic girl once
who was adamant in salvation.
Heaven's gates spread
as wide as her legs.
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 8:12 PM UTC
My dad and his friend driving out to the pasture to sit in the pickup truck and talk about what? How the cows are doing, the upcoming hunting season, growing quail, fishing, the state of the country.
I don't know what these men talked about but they spent hours together.
While they were out talking Eunice and Marie sat smoking in the living room, discussing stuff. I could sit and listen to them for hours, but don't remember what they talked about. Maybe Marie would get out one of her poems or show my Mama some of her ceramics or paintings.
We girls would dance together the bop to the latest 50's music or we would ride our horses through the pastures and at night we would play Scarin' with their brother-a hide and seek game in the dark.
We spent every weekend together, eating greens, fried cornbread and chicken. I always thought I was Marie's favorite because she was always so kind to me. She was a kind of Earth Mother, quite different from my own Mama. Sometimes Sonny, the boy, would get in trouble because we girls would tell on him for throwing corncobs at us. Then Marie would go after him with a skillet, a switch or a paddle, whatever was handy.
Lamar had been in WWII and had been too close to a grenade. He developed terrible skin cancers which left horrid scars on his face. When I was 15, he died and Marie started working in the Catholic School so the three kids could still attend.
Here we were the Baptists (us) and the Catholics (them) never realizing that our friendship in rural Mississippi was a bit unusual. Mama would lend her Bible to Marie because the Catholic church did not allow the people to read and interpret for themselves at that time.
When we were really young, the family lived in an old unpainted two-story house with Lamar's Dad-Cap'n-a strict old grumpy German who we tried to stay away from. We would come up from Louisiana when I was four and spend the night for the nine months we lived in Louisiana.
Saturday night baths were in a tub-four girls first, then Sonny last-he was a boy and the dirtiest. No running water and a two-seater outhouse. Those were the days...
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 9:11 AM UTC
besmirching the Presbyterians
all dolled up
pretending they don’t drink
and fornicate
for dollars
down at the stop’n’save,
a low chuckle rises
the pits of hell never heard such a guttural and robust howl
my face distorts at the hypocrisy of their lives
small narrow-minded hate-mongers
doing everything they can conceive
to impose their will on others
to force their beliefs
down the hearts and minds and, yes
the throats
of any culture they come in contact with
invoking “god’s work”
while spreading disease and poverty –
blame the Baptists!
it was they who confined the natural people of America
to starve on barely habitable plots of desert
until uranium was discovered
then pushed them to the very edge of extinction
for a few more corporate dollars
in the collection plate…..
heathens rarely tip –
Smash the seculars!!
they continue to punish their sons and daughters
over genetically predisposed lifestyles
while touting grace and faith
in the most high authority
which basically means
they are above man’s law
having forgotten, it was men
who wrote god’s law –
oh hypocritical little lamb
your head and *** do not really belong together
in a perfect union
they should be separate
you know, like the founders intended
with the state and your ***** ***** churches
the same churches
where young boys are *****
for Jesus –
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 2:27 PM UTC
Let’s sit under this tree
Just you and me
And see what we can
From this piece of land.
Let’s see what is natural
And something others call
Contrived, manufactured
In their pricey lectures
To sell books and CDs
To clueless entities
Sitting on their couch
Ready to loudly grouch
About how poorly they are used
How they are abused
By the way others live;
Always have an opinion to give
Of what others should do
People like me and you
To whom they’re not related
But somehow got delegated
To a pool of the ******
Who they want to see crammed
Into flaming tour buses to hell
When Gabriel’s horn swells
And Jesus himself decides
Where the line divides
Those worthy to be saved
And those others who were brave
And tell the rest to adhere
To the line dividing queers
And the unbaptized sinners
From the rest of the winners
Who once read The Bible.
The rest are held liable
And will be sent to perdition
Due to their position
On The True Religion
Based on ancient renditions
Of fables and fairy tales
Of water wine and hungry whales.
There will be many Arabs in hell
And these folks know **** well
There will be no Mormons going
No Jewish representation showing,
Just good old fashioned Baptists
And maybe a few of the Papists
Certainly not that many
Maybe not any.
As I said, let’s sit and see
What happens to you and me
While we wait patiently
And see in the meantime
How many faithful commit crime
And intolerance in the name of God.
It should be pretty odd.
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 9:54 PM UTC
The history of our species
is soaking with blood and feces.
Coated in rotting corpses,
The fates are so remorseless.
How could a God create this
world of war, **** pain, and racists?
A righteous God could never conceive
of this world that I perceive.
If there is a loving creator
then why all the hate and racial slurs?
Why's there materialistic vanity
and imperialistic insanity?
Curse this reality of physicality,
We're all slaves to our own duality.
The world is so mangled and ******
So This God must be one sick puppy.
School shootings are now a common practice
and hate is spewed from rage filled baptists,
Are they really God's spiritual apparatus?
If so I want no part of his kingdom
I want no part of this crooked system.
I ask you, God are you trying to teach us?
Is suffering the way that you reach us?
Or are we just pawns in a twisted game?
Your abandoned children left out in the rain?
If there is a God then it must hate
The entirety of which it creates.
He or she must enjoy our pain,
Must laugh at bullets lodged in brains.
I've seen widows cry
I've seen youths die
And God has yet to tell me why.
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 2:37 AM UTC
God's Capitalist pastor
heaven or hell
which ways faster?
speaking in tongues
cussing tons to flares nuns
Spanish never reached presidential ****
popping abortion pills the only thing done
gold tinted feelings repeated and sung
only baptists are talk about being christian
i grant a lot of thought to flaunt the want of dyer needs from taunts
you covered in flees not spots
you un tucked your sleeves and taught
break trees and then smoked the leafs from what they brought
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 1:42 AM UTC
She wore a weak leg,
two hands of grievance
That would often beg
Baptists bowl creedence
Slept with the sons,
whispered to the daughters
Voices like kitchen crumbs
Mumbles I never bothered
Her voice carried
In a clammy palm
That at once buried
An ancestor embalmed
Many spectators to this
This great deterioration
Out of her mouth a hiss
I hold none, no adoration
To her I owe
Many things unsaid
We live in a shivered home
In hallways she treads
But none the less
She is my lady
My skull hers to caress
My only, lovely baby
Jul 24, 2017
Jul 24, 2017 at 4:32 PM UTC