When I was what you could call ‘virulently atheist’ I remember warding off any future professions of faith with great vindictiveness. What did I expect? I imagine it was a form of self-reinforcement.
I would say… if, in the future, I profess faith, then you can know that it is truly a mistake. As if to protect and account for my future self, who would undoubtedly have gone through an incredible transformation.
I’m still atheist, I’m just a lot more materialistic about the cultus now. Now, I would say of my future self – if he professes faith, just be kind to him.
Say NO! to hysteria
Metre and syllable limit are machines to make beautiful language, or good poems. There are others, among them actively thwarting metre and syllable limit. These machines routinely break down, when they are not understood as machines.
The wood gate is crisp
driftwood’s dry mirror –
and the church behind
is the rock upon
which the waves crash hard.
This hubbub decries –
with the tree’s creaking –
those who seek a peace.
Really there is no
well chiselled message;
In the graveyard hear
soft undefined hums
of voice and organ
mixing in hollows –
hear wind whistle through.
Hear your insecure
thoughts tapping upon
the stained glass dust – hear
choral doom and then
lays of the bright voice;
in time’s long empire
has brought the air here
and the soft water
Worry fills the air, it has always filled the air.
In the dark crouched under a cliff edge, clutching
close our churchly comforts, curling
fingers round our hope and hurting.
In bed caressed by muster horns of a great storm
our worries go riding out over the top of the trenches
gunned down by the thoughtless
death-machines, our dreams turned nightmares,
teach us mercilessness to utopian thinking.
We live on the thin red line which hedges provisionally
the gap between dystopia and the real.
We see burbling spitting demagogues
rising from the ashes of war and despair,
And wait for nothingness to dry
like mould in the bathroom
peeling into oblivion and resting on a stone floor,
forgotten by the universe,
not marked by a single smile, but marked
by a single frown or dry tearduct. No.
Our challenge, our tribulations and trials
are but one – to keep the bleeding faith
in life, sharp teeth gritted –
to stand high above the wave and teach it
like lightning it lacks a purpose we fulfil!
To dance in the fire like fire and lift
our friends up, and the weak,
(who are strong but if they can flow
like mercury among the other metals)
Say, drudgers, worriers of the world, rise up,
you have nothing to lose but your fear
We have the stars to win.
And if one day, sun rising
on a field of red martian grass,
disaster comes, we will deal with that disaster –
shuffling our cards and smiling at the draw:
We keep the red fire and pass it on,
whirling and dancing from soul to soul
lift the handful of dice and play your role,
forging and reforging humanity from the sparks
and defying the world to fall.
Get angry, get warm, and never bow.
Never bow at all.