Pray. 

For years they knelt
under arches, rainbow glass
and stone crosses.
For years they knelt,
hunched over the Good Book,
under God.

For years they knelt
under Golden Arches,
LCD screens and electronic
spires.
For years they knelt,
hunched over phones
and tablets.

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Yahweh

I’d skip registration
and catch the 535 into town,
slapping into a dusty seat I would sit
staring at mother’s force feeding the morning
bottle and old couples supporting
one another down the isle.

I’d walk through the street, past building society’s
packed with pension grubbers, dolites
and mortgage scrabblers; coffee palaces
brimming with comfy jeans snuggled
into war torn leather, supporting double-shot
skinny de-caf frappuccino with sprinkles,
doubling up on false conversation.

I step up through the path
across redemption paving,
in through the archway
and sit in the the pew.
I’d watch old birds peck at dirty pages,
while the collared chap
dusts the ripped
oak beams, eyes praying for conversation.

This is your God now, shallow
and deafeningly silent.
I bought one one of your necklaces
and paid in gold, frankincense and myrrh:

It’s buried somewhere I think, gulls
probably squawk above it.

Hip.

With paint and fury the urban demi-Gods
flip solitude and make it trendy.
Splashing bi-polar obsessions onto carbon-
copied canvas. Sunglasses, bandanas
and all; surfing hype and the beauty of art
and temper.
Stop fucking reading, beating off to DVD’s of flesh
and listening to spoken word.
Watch. Art. Feel your muscle build in both
biceps and your spine tingle and tighten
to the synth and weed.

Smoke rings talk and talk and talk and talk
and talk and talk and talk and talk
and talk and talk
until chalk and talc and talk and talk
and talk and talk become tawlk and taulk
and lose all meaning.

I hear the scream of a Tyrannosaur.
My bedroom window is open:
It’s still screaming.
Chatter and anonymous voices
try to contain the shreiks and vices
and feeble pains.
The winds stab walls like cans
of spray-paint, shaking and clicking:

Stencilling Clowns onto the sides of
Banks and markets.
Burning money; green and purple and gold.
Dealing with white cheeks and wide red faces that
talk and talk and talk and taulk and tawlk and talk
and tawlk and talk and taulk and taulk.

And lose all meaning.