It is in the stillness that we bend,
horrid creatures crouching sad,
the glad facade a cavalcade of joy
that is torpid and warm-
a spattering of blood slowly drip, drip, dripping.
It is in the marketplace of the world
that we explode a curious bunch
of ardent full-believers in a dream
that to some may seem a distant
and complacent place of heresy.
It is in reformation that we grow
like giants to the sky, hands raised
in holy genuflection to the self-
the mortal and immortal
that is both larger and smaller than itself.
It is in ego that we fall horribly
hard to the pits of despair we call unfair,
angels no longer loved or in love-
drenched in pools of fire, liquid blue
and vulgar like a leper's crutch tapping on stone.
It is in charity that we mend
the broken fences of the world
that we've hurled tempest-tossed into the air
of what happens next when the wind
is blowing hard - leaves ripping from the trees.
It is in solutions that we find absolution
when we tell all the dirty little secrets
of ourselves and others, especially others,
to find forgiveness, the credence of forgiveness
that is a godless and abundant artform.
It is in resistance that we make the call
for mounting a diverse strategy
of imposing thoughts, a forward-continuum
that is the science of advertising that opposes the spirituality
of naked souls crying out in silent screams.
It is in sexual indulgence that freedom is found,
lustful stimulation that is in and out again,
illuminations in the dark, retardations of the spark
that was once animalistic and divine,
retardations that are toxic and perverse.
It is in the middle millhouses of the earth
where we find the hungry and the poor,
where the whores lie rotten, rotting in stench-
rimmed corridors and behind closed doors
while water leaks from rusting pipes - drip, drip, dripping.
It is in the sky that we find salvation,
damnation, seeking a sacrament that tastes
of wine and blood, of shit and lies,
all the things that I despise
wrapped up conveniently in one bundle called my home.