by Janet Kenny
Come out you psychopathic creep,
you heartless mystery who needs
to frighten children out of sleep,
whose monstrous ego daily feeds
on supplications from the sick
and promises from desperate souls.
Come out and show yourself, you prick
whose victims writhe on burning coals.
Come out, pontificating ghoul
who fattens on the rising praise
of flatterers, whose pious schools
inculcate lies, whose dogmas craze
the simple. Come, expose your face,
that vile reflection of our fear.
Know now, there is no hiding place,
mass murderer, no welcome here.
What have you done with it, you thing,
that spirit whom you overpowered?
The one who made the birds that sing?
The one for whom the fruit trees flowered?
The smell of burning flesh exudes
from all your deeds. Your cloven feet
scorch divots as your will intrudes
and mothers cry for milk and meat.
We stir beneath your brutal weight
and creep like prisoners to the light
to stretch our limbs and celebrate
our liberation from the night.
Who dares to name the nameless? Who
lays claim to know the name of You?
Your armies vie to shout your name,
replete with certainty and bile.
The women hide their heads in shame.
It’s you I blame. Your work is vile.
Whatever caused young love to glow,
and buttercups in dewy grass,
and trees to rustle, streams to flow,
it wasn’t you, you horse’s arse.
You are the baby in the lab
with test tubes strewn across the floor.
With random goofiness, you grab
the nearest toy and roar for more.
Larger forces have no time
to notice our catastrophe.
The mathematics is sublime.
We are your past apostasy.
The broken eggs you cracked and used
to make an omelette, and we grow
with you, ambitious and confused,
performers in your cooking show.
Yet every morning hearts expand,
though heads can never understand.