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Brent Kincaid Oct 2015
It’s the Wholly Babble!
Obfuscation for the rabble;
Its plagiarized bunk
Delivered in hunks
And carefully rigged
To put lipstick on the pig
That means, at least,
A good living for priests.

So, let’s take a collection
Everyone pays the tab
For a few thousand years
Of indecipherable blab.
Let’s make up stories
That never appeared
And discuss the length
Of God-On-High’s beard.

In the Wholly Babble!
Godly, revered people
You can search and find
Many murderously unkind.
Despicable tales galore
Talking snakes and gore;
****** and genocide,
Infanticide and fratricide.

So, let’s take a collection
Everyone pays the tab
For a few thousand years
Of indecipherable blab.

Miracles are plenty there
To believe every word here
To tempt you with their glory
In the convoluted story
Of two people and two kids
Who did the son wed
When one got married?
From where was she carried?

Let’s make up stories
That never appeared
And discuss the length
Of God-On-High’s beard.

And the saddest thing is
An ‘us and them’ myth is
The idea used to create
An established cause for hate.
It’s your God against mine
Yours is evil, mine is fine.
Now isn’t that a fright
To keep you up at night?

So, let’s take a collection
Everyone pays the tab
For a few thousand years
Of indecipherable blab.
Let’s make up stories
That never appeared
And discuss the length
Of God-On-High’s beard.
Lucy Ryan Oct 2015
these pieces / found in mud / beneath the water / where we stitched them / as feathers / on Michael’s spine / and ****** / kisses you / like God / could fear you

may dirt / on your jawbone / make you holy / and blood / on your mouth / make you thirst / and you / in moments / as glory

and we prayed / we prayed / we pray
Marissa Aug 2014
The blasphemy
That overtakes my
Thoughts
Was put there by
Demons and
Kept there by
Saints in order
To destroy me slowly.
Demons upon demons
Have entered and left
Without a trace
Leaving negativity
Like tumors on my
Brain
Inoperable
Said the Saints
And they left me too
Now I have nothing
Inside of me
Leading me towards
The banks of the
Cloudy river
I have nothing leading
Me towards the bottle of
Sleeping pills on
My dresser
I have nothing to stop me
I have nothing
I have
Me
Lyra O Jul 2014
It’s a lift that people get on
when there are a hundred floors
to climb; even Armageddon
can’t get past these sliding doors.

People press whatever button
that will send them on their way
to their meeting & discussion
& their business for the day.

Until one day, someone skipped church;
barely missed the sliding doors.
But the lift stood still, shook, then lurched,
slamming people to the floor.

& then people sat up to perch
on their knees & start to pray
that they’ll never again miss church
if they don’t run late today.
11 July 2013.

— The End —