The Pontificators

We clockwork walking,
we muck-born metal,
we clicking hatchets,
we strutting shovers,
we who pet and slap,
we who smile through fangs,

we grooms who kill brides,
we mothers who kill children,
we sons who kill fathers,
we strangers who kill grinning,
we bogs of rot,
we springing razors,

we grinders all,
we little gods bleeding
from the cuts of our oppressors, spotted
with the blood of our victims, rattle our fists
to curse God.

He who heals is beneath us. He who binds insults us.
We need no salve; we need no cool water;
we need no quiet sleep; we need no reach into our chest.

This entry was posted on Friday, April 17th, 2009 at 3:46 pm and is filed under Alvin, Faith, Poetry. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.