To:
The literary scholar who hates books,
The one who loves her mother,
The one who tries too,
The one who loves kittens,
And the one who discovered
The secret power of chocolate muffins,
To:
The artist with the dirty notes,
The swimmer who’s taken hard roads,
The one who is like me,
Stimming and neuro-spicy,
And the one who drives us on,
To:
The ones I’ve come to love—
Thank you for softening
So many rough landings.
O, to away from here in anxious haste and reckon not with cosmic consequences so wrought by aged hands. Whose myopic visions gave no consideration of posterity, and the same who lived under accursed pretense that they be both first and last — the very same whose achromatic Christ promised hastened return if they but wreath the world in flame.
And so black smoke rises, and the sky falls, and those who’ve drawn heaven down upon our heads dare not look up. Cowards and curs fault sin beyond the chapel step but disregard the unsettled bones preying within the sanctuary of baroque cathedrals.
O, that we might blot out our progenitors and cast off their crimes for which we are called to give account. Is there no justice in Heaven? Has God been so struck blind? Do not the angels watch in wonder and rally to our cry?
Divine stars! Align yourselves against the wicked of this age who, with braids of gold, fashion for themselves a noose for a necklace. Let them sway as leaves in the gallow-groves of their sowing. Or! — may the rattling rebukes of their little gods empty their corrupted thoughts and bid them sleep, and sleep forevermore.
O, may you — my friends — pronounce your curse, upon those who defraud us our humanity — who put us at enmity with God and do pit us against ourselves. Make caverns of their chests and topple their damned towers. And there, let Rome reign in Hell.
Take not your arms to the schoolhouse.
Children have no interest in your lead.
Take it to the scarlet chambers,
Build there, your mountain of the dead.
Easter is soon upon us — join me, friends, and let our voices ascend to Heaven’s throne.
Let us pray:
As they live, O Lord,
So may they die.
Take from them their children.
Grant them no place to hide.
Amen.
Death cannot save you.
For I peer into the Shadow—
Plunder the Abyss.
From Hel herself,
Your soul can I rip.
Be not proud;
Invoke not your god—
That weak and impish sprite
Whom devils applaud.
Come, now.
Won’t you accept your fate
With a measure of grace?
I wonder if they hear God
In the recoil of a gun.
Or if——
In the choir of children’s screams
They hear angels sing.
Does gunpowder rise like incense
To carry their prayers
Up to heaven?
If guns be their Bibles
And bullets be their verses,
Then let their communion
Draw them into the presence of God.
Raising. Rising. Lifting.
The foul and desecrated cup.
Despised and despising.
Infernal hells now bear them up.
Wicked tongues now contend
To shatter souls by misleading.
Toxic words will they bend,
Poison masked in gentle seeming.
Make war and put to death,
The gods of these accurséd men.
Make nothing of their breath.
And to thy God—their souls commend.
Stir and rise, lowly Fool,
Let your wisdom be their folly.
Drive back the hellish ghoul
With fire and flame and volley.
The Magician before his work
Is quite unlike The Fool—
To work his will upon the land,
Prepares he every tool.
Beneath the wary Architect—
Bends his stolen power.
By his Devilish instruments—
Falls that mighty Tower.
Play the witness—Sun and Moon—
Gradual his marching,
Inverting Death and Temperance,
His foul Path disheartening.
A Judgement on this weary World,
In madness proclaims He—
But Justice shall Fall on his head,
A Hanged Man cannot see—
A curse upon my father’s house,
And on men such as he
Who in cowardice do espouse
To stand in God, mightily.
In them you’ll find no might.
Neither find you any wit.
They claim prophetic sight
And build up gods from shit.
I dedicate this poem to far-right American White Evangelical Christians everywhere. May you die as you have lived, and may your God treat you as you have treated others.
Illiterate Broadcasts 