The REVEREND IS A SICK, SICK MAN

The Reverend is a sick, sick man and regrets

that he is far too unwell to be doing todays sermon.

Here it is

rabies delerium, 1930s

THE REVEREND IS SICK!

 

Burn my bones, Fever!

Keep burning till the charcoal

turns to diamonds in your fires.

Lick my broiling brow

till sweat

like little pearls

comes tearing down my face.

Boil my brain

in the stockpot skull,

Old Cauliflower on a stalk.

Stick bruised and yellowed grapes

for eyes on toothpick stems,

plant jagged splinters to impale

the swollen, bleeding bulbs.

 

Meanwhile,

like a dry and desiccating desert Sirocco,

sweeping through fanged and desolate ranges,

my burning breath bursts between

the cracked and peeling lips

in red, ragged gusts.

As Street fighting breaks out

in the lymph nodes and the veins,

the DNA struggles to reach

a Political Solution,

incorporating “moderate elements”

amongst the foreign invaders’ leadership

into the Organisation’s own genome.

Minor structural changes occur.

Leaderless the viral horde retreats

to lurk in unsuspected reservoirs

along with the Herpes Virus

and other dissident elements

to wait for the Day

the System finally collapses.

 

Meanwhile; “Minor structural changes occur“,

Call it Mutation. Call it Evolution.

God speaks the Truth to us through Chemistry,

a Litmus Testament of Tongues, Saying,

 

Admit it!

You are no more an Individual

than is a coral reef!

 

You die screaming then,

again and again

down long Corridors of Time.

 

But while the old Flesh rots and clots,

Swelling

Tumescent Glands burrow blindly

beneath the muscle,

like ticks/ like

monstrous new organs they

pulse and stretch

and struggle to speak,

they sing

strange, soothing songs,

that lull me to sleep

in a babble of vegetable tongues.

goat man

***

sound thinkingJPIG

***

tai chi hand strawberry circle

The Reverend Hellfire is a sick, sick man.

Most of the time he feels good about that.

***

***

 

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~ by reverendhellfire on June 8, 2014.

2 Responses to “The REVEREND IS A SICK, SICK MAN”

  1. Never thought anybody would write a poem about sickness. Blabber about it- frequently. Swear about it – all the time.
    You see poetry in everything.

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