Sydney Poetry
A social site for poets in Sydney.
Tell Me Mary
Tell Me Mary 30/10/12
Bible pages, Koran pages,
canons of love, wisdom and hate,
unthinking maniac purity,
sweet hopes for heaven,
the un-tameable quality of man unquestioningly trapped in a finitude of black and white pages,
a life so easily justified,
where love is twisted into “love what I say” by sexless unmarried men clad in clean robes and dirty minds,
All the while we're sitting like springtime trees,
tickled by the soft warm breeze in yellowy complacent beauty,
and think we are right and free,
and let all our minds pick the lowest dangling fruit,
all the while being tempted by billboard serpents…reckon you can buy your own kind of Eden?
Kings Cross Mary knows, surely, how wrong we are!
Cussing cigarette stained truth at those unlucky enough to think themselves sane.
She knows we do not love! She knows we do not heed holy words!
Mary.
Tell me, with your bony fishnet thighs under the bland hostility of the gaudy neon lights,
Tell me, with your depraved sidewalk stare.
You know mans imperfection (for women are perfect),
he has drawn your tears of blood!
So let us yell to the heavens
HALLELUJAH WE ARE WRONG!
HALLELUJAH HALLELUJAH HALLELUJAH
We are all wrong!
What a liberation!
What a stupidly obvious revelation,
I AM WRONG,
we can stop fighting over bullshit like idiots…like what name to give our creator
Yahwheh god, Krishna god, jehova god, coca-cola god, magazine idolatress god.
Instead we have our gloriously uncertain warmths of poetry,
and the wisdom of the people who have felt our hate,
and stories of Jesus sacrifice,
Facts are irrelevant…just die for your compassion!
There are still no shortage of crosses to be handed out!
And if I’m wrong I don’t care
Oh dear coca-cola god above, condemn me to bitter unsweetened hell
I don’t believe you are there
But HALLELUJAH I may be wrong
I’ll walk the damned sidewalk,
where souls remain beautifully unsaved in their uncertain judgement,
God’s suspicious apocalypse won’t come,
the catastrophic rapture bombs won’t come!
We worry about strange fictions,
while the grey stacks thrust slow death into air above our very heads,
and life gets pushed behind our McDonald’s walls,
would you eat a burger if you saw two million cows slaughtered?
shocking Milgram autonomy
follow the leader
sin #1…god can you hear that?
And why are we still worrying about gay people?
Hitler hetero!
Idi Amin hetero!
Mugabe hetero!
Kim Jong nuclear hetero!
All that is happening has been forseen by somebody,
it doesn’t take a matyr to show the truth,
just some bum with no reason to lie,
Ezra….Canto XLV 1940s….predicted the sub prime social wreck.
Wisdom don’t change its mind,
and neither does headless systematic avarice absent a scapegoat…
Oh sweet democratic angel,
that dragged us from our barbaric nature,
can you save us from ourselves!?
are our poor souls fit to govern?
A politic myopic 4 year future is certainly too blind!
Because when the ad-break ends we’ll sink back into the universe,
where beautiful people screw carelessly,
and swim in their stream of happy endings,
and get shot in painless glory,
and pursue masculine revenge,
and fear is shallow and resolved with a soft grazed knee forehead kiss.
Add a Comment
On Facebook
@sydneypoetry
Social
© 2024 Created by Adrian Wiggins.
Powered by
You need to be a member of Sydney Poetry to add comments!
Join Sydney Poetry