“He is the god of nothing —
If that’s all that you can see.
You are the god of everything —
He’s inside you and me.
So lean upon Him gently …”
God’s dead – now
that is a catchy punchline
A groovy paradigm shift bass motif
Walking down the throbbing streets of the twentieth century
Ablaze with the absence of belief – when life learned not to
choke on the absence of purpose – while learned life
cleansed the air of the invisible
The plan – most honourable : to see through sight
Before the grey-white veil smears blindness like a wax feather
over the eyes of the witnesses
Taming the shrewd into an “unreliable narrator”
Well I am compelled to say I do not like it.
My God is not dead – He would have told me.
My God is wavelengths, high frequencies,
Iconoclast acoustic diminished arpeggio,
All run-on lines, all resonating rhymes
Discounted obscure albums
Brought back to life during sales time
– Innumerable hymns
My God is old.
(My God holds
On his back on his head all things,
arguments, points of view, jokes,
All dragons and princesses,
all forests, labyrinths,
paper idols, floral arrangements,
The Jews know : we should not called God by his name
But simply by his one quality : Eternal.
It is no matter of respect, but of accuracy.
I can draw a stick figure anywhere, graphite or ink or chalk,
And call it Adonaï, and it will be erased bit by bit
By willing volunteers.
God has no bits
He is one like – a puddle of clay
Like the rings of old
Like a Republic – But then again,
I am biased. I Iike God.
Though I suspect soon enough
other things will ring at my door
And – I suspect – will unfold my sheet
And place it over God’s face
with quiet gestures
And I won’t care about flowers, or forests
My God is not dead –
I have not told him yet.
Again these analog scratches amid the usual depressurisation of economy
– start and finish – a general headache- turbulences –
Between temporary paradigms – the worst thing is it will never stop
And we’re not even sure we will land …
Have a peppermint painkiller.
Again a handful of secrets exposed under false pretence of popular art
Standing on one leg as did the Indian Gods of old
– minus maybe the unmistakable musical penis
aimed right at you.
Decade-long interludes relief between timely deadlines
A field of graves the ever-expanding common mind :
90-99 you angsty as fuck
80-89 you sinewave bird songs on your Yamaha DX7
70-79 you minstrel sunflower fox even off stage even free
60-69 you protester loud headline melodies soft political machines
30-39 opium opium opium opium opium
00-09 you not absolved yet – Gilgamesh written
Interludes spent in the wings of history
Resonating when done like ripples from a pebble thrown
– memory circles outlasting memories
Fading out to the next track
Over the sizzle of the years
– the white noise after the silence
Cake writing challenge #64. Prompts : handful :: deadline :: birdsong :: headache :: resonate.
I heard of Lou Reed’s death sitting
under a shelf with English dictionaries
Nailed under a cheap Man Ray postcard
And random Chinese symbols on the wall
On a facebook screen timeline reaching
to the more than immediate future
in a vain but certainly lucrative quest
as if wearing the attires of a cyber rock star
Ironically enough (for me)
The song playing was I am a dead man
By unknown artist – no capitals
And the house was empty – apart from me
I heard of Lou Reed’s death sitting
In an echo of Seamus Heaney
In an echo of a friend’s unknown relative
In an echo of past things sitting
Very past us
I am very humbled, dear Facebook
By your attention to my every need
But when I sent a message to my girlfriend
reading I want to write a poem about something
I did not ask for such magnitude