Silks
The iconoclast
may have the last say,
God
seems to have had his
or her day
and things move on,
but if God has truly gone
where does it leave me?
up a gum tree?
(well at least I may bag a
bargain)
it's hard then to deny the denier
who would destroy with impunity
those
things that mean things to me
when the denier
is in here
(he said, tapping his chest),
is that clear?
We build so we can break
create an order to
make of it chaos
and what does that
make of us?
We sweeten things with saccharin
opium and heroin,
so stoned that we continue in
blind ignorance
I'm guilty your Worship
who weighs me off
with a caution
and again
I am a small fish
in a flamin' big ocean.
God can't help me
they pulled his statue down
and
erected a new town
called it Sodom,
fuck em'
I'll talk with God's grandmother
who sits
knitting fireflies,
eyes for the angels.
John Smallshaw
Tags:
Poetry