Look over your shoulder for the hustle of words.

Saturday, January 13, 2007

Entrails

It is the never ending God Problem that brings
the students to the classroom
in white and red and cotton shreds
and no-one knowing which is blood and which is bleach.
Whole families crush at the door, their mouths agog,
their fingers jamming into sockets
and the preacher telling them to fry, fry, fry

Someone's at the back playing discordantly;
their head is cocked, they're crooning
about Lord Lord Lord cometh, Maranatha.
One man stands atop a desk and sets himself on fire.
Well now, students, what shall we prescribe for him?
Third degree burns, a splintered heart, broken cogs
and there's too much grey between his ears
God's love? God's ire?

I'm taking notes, don't you see?
I have a thesis, a phil OH so? Fee.
And here it is, this once, for free:

perhaps we aren't dealing in madness
perhaps we aren't dealing in psychology

perhaps we are just dealing in weapons of mass distraction
from the Man Problem

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