Gory glory gods



gods
Are scary deities, I believe
They smite with steel rods
And for reprieve
Prop you up in thorns
Demanding for expiation and atonement
They have never given man any peace
Or some release.

Sister,
Your gods of wealth and money.
Do you rattle them with the jingle of coins?
Or glue notes to their faces for favours, for bribes,
For fashion, for beauty?

Mother,
Habituation has its own gods.
What sound, what scent,
Aroma and odours arouse the ones you serve in your many addictions?
Food? Sex? Alcohol? Children?
Odds.

Father,
How do you conceive your deity?
Mortal, immortal, visible o’ invisible?
Molten or graven?  Wooden? Stone? Or spruced up with paints on canvas? 
The morning fog or the mountain steam, indefinable.
Written, typed on scripts their names ineffable
Their power invincible, destructive but
Highly indestructible.
Or do you find the idea of one repulsive – understandable?

Brother,
What fancy place do you beg them at?
Comfortable spaces filled with wooden pews, or with floors
Draped with embroidered carpets?
Incensed grottos with fine sculptures and drawings of their imaginations?
The air-conditioned ply-wood partitioned cubicle you call office,
What erections? Rock boulders, walls, cliffs.
Some recluse in the forest with totem trees. The caves suffice?
What direction do you face them? The rising sun in the east,
The evening star in the west
The sea, the winds or towards the firebrick that
Warms around their high places the best.

Society to your gods, how
Do I pray?
Do I kneel, stand silently, sit and clap,
My hands raise, my head nod or lay prostrate in that holy space?
What oblations, what offerings? Piety, incense, flowers, money, candy,
Libations, a holocaust stands a better chance?
Why so your gods full of hate and burning rage?

Gory and glory
What gods order deaths of thousands at the hands of their zealots
Or a hundred sheep bled into the cauldron
To satiate their thirst?
Do they remain in that
Age of gods mad and unjust?
And my neighbour threaten
With hell fire, pestilence and destruct
No heaven for disbelief,
Different and heresy.
And feel no remorse for the countless wounded, the hurting and infirm?
A god with a poor sense of Maths.
Who rather would annihilate and afflict
Than hear supplications, extolments
From a zillion healthy fold
Yeah. Loving, merciful and peaceful
Very transcendent, magnanimous, omniscient
With all the strife around,
How can a god be a tragedy?

Son, the one who makes all that is tranquil
Equable and beautiful.
I’ll profess.

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