Saturday, August 22, 2009
The Elite's Religious Art and the Lowly Sprites
When the crucifix begot a rock song ballyhooed
by infidelities, I submitted an essay to the Pope.
The bishops said I was being pedantic, romantic,
silly and hoarse, could I be quiet for Rome,
be a tad high for the cloistered crud of Zion?
When the civilized baptized Noah and classified
mystics into factional disputes, I vowed not
to avow any pediatric case in messianic rivers,
promised to promote a perceived heresy in whores
blasphemed at the creek of highways and byways.
When the hologram of Goliath jazzed up a raucous
crowd biased against dwarves & ophthalmologically-
challenged wooden slipper-clod giants, I sensed
defamation by a nation of faults, galets, molten
lava'd white hearts melting at self-preservation
and pride, wilting for self-promotion, gliding
willy-nilly into power, thus to be declared new
towering kings of an old Babylon with curmudgeons
for pink infants, lions for gendarmes, hooligans,
braggarts, and card-lovers perfumed to the teeth.
When the hour begot a son and declared himself
liberator of a mob of sophisticates on Sundays,
I vowed to not allow crows into my cocoa-laden
house, promised my children the heathen will not
pay up, sour up their soup, melt trumpets for
goblets, raise ramparts for cross & crissa crooks.