Our musted, not really to be trusted, honesties
just curdle cow juice
stink of bishop's unclean toes.
Cheese and churned religions, rye bread, it is said,
is the good shepherd's brunch-
a late breakfast. Goodness as ever being late.
Plus a tankard of home-brew, spirited hope
for all of the addicted dopes at Brotherhood Gate.
Head in our vineyard's Hessian sack
atop
a bound woman with child
her abdomen swollen like the drowned
eight months gone.
Genes at screaming pitch-
a picture which we should not ever see
freedoms being arch as they are
blind to our beloved pornographies.
He shoves a shot-gun up her cunt and fires.
All the Gods sleeping-
keeping deathly quiet in Greece, Sumer and Egypt.
They could not care less, and less and less,
this monkey triptych
see nothing, hear nowt, shout shut: it rules Rome.
What should we do? Do not
blunt sensibilities or
walk lamely through the swing doors
flap of rights and wrongs
declaring utter zilch complicity.
No is by far the finer answer but
you always choose the common or garden yes.
Chris Madoch August 2013. Copyright 2013. All Rights Reserved.
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