Death of the Animists

Spit, spit, spit.
You mad group of prophets,
you leaders with sticks,
you came with your hungry mouths
hung open and groaning for
a solitary love, a Mono,
an El without end.

Mother's shadow is hung
where she stood;
strung low,
huddled between the flayed
hide of the goats.
Father is crisped,
the fire of your fury
has licked his fists clean.
They rattle, jars of bone.

The wind was kept out by the work
of their hands.
They prayed to the rocks,
to the whistle and scatter
of bark and of wind,
to the thrusting of springs.

You, bastard son. You did them in.

Spit, spit, spit.
You split the red sea but
bludgeoned the life out of it.