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The End Time Church

We say a hurried prayer
To cover our multitude of sins,
It was time to listen to the Preacher,
He’d bless us and say all the right things
King James’ version,
“Blessed art thou”.

Deacons like Businessmen,
They sit behind the Podium
Smack their lips,
Flex well cut suits
And perform Mathematical Miracles;
Division of congregational offertory:

Impeccably gowned and groomed,
The Choir sings;
 “Hallelujah, Hallelujah”,
With excess crescendos of Sopranos;
Congregation is inspired,
The Kingdom of God is to be desired.
Tone deaf children sing along,
Elderly citizens sing their own song,
Perfect discord,
The Choirmaster is pleased.

The pews are filled,
Saints-to-be, Saints and Ex-Saints
Still dripping from baptismal waters,
The Pastor is pleased,
Just look at the size of their pockets.

The Youth is supercharged,
Holy Ghost fired,
Divinely inspired,
Riding high on Drugs;
Long hairs, Crew cuts, and Skinheads,
Maxi, Mini, Micro skirts,
With wide eyes a Boy catches a glimpse of a lady’s thighs
He keeps staring while singing,
“All Things Bright and Beautiful”

Where is the Early Church?
This is the End Time Church,
Heads buried in a Psychedelic world,
This is the Holy Church.

The Axis of Evil grows,
Destruction in apocalyptic dimension.

The Holy Church awaits the casualties.

*****18th December 2005****

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Executioner's Business

I have not come here
To put back together
The Guinea fowl egg
That was broken on Her Majesty's sandals.

I am an Executioner.
The why and the how matters not,
It's the Who.

Those who in malice
Destroy good food in fits of pettiness
Then turn to mock the distended bellies
Of hungry children
Shall know no peace.

But today,
It is not scoffing egg breakers that vex me.

It is,
Those who in silence watched
While the dirty deed was done,
Unconcerned about hungry mouths,
Then proceeded to,
on the miscreants
behalf, plead for mercy,
It is they who stir my bile.

So may I not be blamed
When in swinging my blade
I, accidentally, chop off the heads
Of wailers who stand too close to the guilty.

The Executioner's job is urgent business
I have no time for the niceties
Of giving, those who loiter, final warnings.

***** August 3, 2016*****

Bedtime Epiphany of a Pining Heart

I contemplated
On things that were and were not,
On why
Light retracts different, in your eyes,
Like rainbows randomly ricocheting
Off my intangible thoughts,

On why,
Words sound different, on your lips,
How you laugh,
How the sounds take a path,
Across infinite dreams,
Into all my incarnations,
Into all my iterations,
Into all...

I concluded
You are a figment
of my imagination,
You must be...

God is not so cruel
That he made a Heaven like you
Then condemned me
To the Hell of perpetual longing
Wanting, and never belonging...

*****September 14, 2016*****

God is My Barber

The sickness that made the Vulture bald
would have killed the Crow.

It is because
the gods are petty
and would not be questioned
about who they show favor to,
That Crows live to,
Squawk hysterically
At Vultures' misfortune.

We have come to understand, that,
when a petty god is your barber,
Crows, who can't afford a razor,
with their benevolent destinies,
will punctuate our precious peace
with their shameless snickering.

the Vulture
pays any mind
wages a war of words
with mockers and scoffers;
for the cure for baldness
is not found in the laughter of Crows...

*****April 4, 2017*****
My Second poem about Vultures. I really need to stop this...😂😂😂