Monday, May 14, 2012

Dirge in the Undead God












The undead Creator writhes and lurches
God of all but unsung in churches
Entombed in vacuum its limbs decay
Flesh the stuff of the Milky Way
Commanded by moans the cosmos unfurls,
Drooling worlds in Fibonacci swirls
Unaware, its galactic muscles flex
Black maws swallowing its Hydra-like necks
Chambers of its sprawling heart, the stars
Send life-blood to the god’s avatars

The pawns of Earth, proud and impious
Deem themselves divine, ticks in God’s carcass
Before their eyes the lifeless body moves
Stars shine, wind blows, and rain falls, which proves
That nature’s God, no spirit required
The monstrous plenum from the first expired

The Creator evolved a head, the Earth
Yet the minds therein are tasked not to birth
Whole worlds but to behold the rotting face,
Tattered wings, shattered carapace
Could a noble soul be found confined
To carrion or mustn’t that soul be resigned
To horror and folly, as a senile old man
Dines on the dung in his foul bedpan?
Or as a mad fish, loathing the sea,
Flops on land comically free?

Come meet the blessed mortal heroes
Gallant in squaring off against their foes?
Saintly with worry for another’s pain?
More likely competing for private gain
Not--as boasted--Lords of Nature
But vicious beasts without the fur
Fucking in secret, ashamed of their stripes
Jealous plumbers groping for others’ pipes

Traces of the Dragon’s alien form
From ghostly flights of the quantum swarm--
Arcana named only in wizards’ scrolls--
To a map of dramatic social roles
Enter alpha, beta, omega males
And history hidden by fairy-tales
Alphas lead by preying on the weak
Feminized betas follow while the bleak
Truth is glimpsed by omega drop-outs
By anxious mystics brought low by doubts
All concealed by elaborate dances
White lies, puffery and PC trances

See now stage left for their shared cameo
As nebulas nursing newborn stars glow
As worlds in the multiverse like flowers grow
As those carrying God’s coffin know woe
Libs and cons squabble for show
Each bowing before the chief beasts
Serving up the oligarchs’ grotesque feasts
Libs trust in the quaint modern myth
Of Reason, Freedom and our precious pith
Reduced to bean counters and sad cuckolds
As the postmodern wasteland unfolds
They condescend with pragmatic nods;
Cons con shamelessly with myths of old gods
With tales of Yahweh counting your head’s hairs
Or Allah demanding you kneel on carpet squares
While the truer gods rule from skyscrapers
Wasting their wealth but praised for their capers
Luxuriating on a golden toilet
While hordes of dupes languish in debt
Punished for the plutocrat’s insane bet
Fun and games next to the existential threat
Of worlds falling as beads of undead sweat

Hear then the song of the truth-blasted seer
No warning or call to action but a rave
An ironic prayer to God’s decaying ear
A rattling of chains binding cosmos and slave
A peeling of soporific veneer
Flames flicker dimly in our abode, the Cave
But they’re beamed from the suns themselves I fear
And we poor witnesses live in our grave
Flesh leaps and struts as a mobile bier
But laugh at the honour of being lodged in God’s rear


2 comments:

  1. For lack of a better term, I call her Tiamat. The dead goddess the universe was made from. As Metaphoric Deities go, she's the closest fit.

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    Replies
    1. Thanks, I'll look into that. I've recently written more on this question of The World's Creation as God's Self-Destruction (Sept, 2012).

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