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Poem

What a quaint and small conception you have of the world

Sunday

Sunday

while you are polishing your rhetoric in pews
with the silver laden coffers of your charity
tucked neatly into your wallet

Sunday

A bright angel of hymns goes dancing through grave yards
where you have lain all heavens in death
and spent life mourning the passing of a cloud
when the shadow it cast
was the hand of God

Sunday

In pealing bells crosses the un-open fields of ideals
Sunday, brings to its alter of blessed wine
the mockery of blood
sweet sugar Sunday, coated, painted, white
and powder puff heresy

Sunday, a Ploughmans Lunch of righteousness
and self confessed aggrandizement
a roast beef deliberation of the eternal joke
has you kissing the priest feet
instead of the sun

Sun-day

Sunday; the candy cotton collected plethora's of worship
forgives the villain and felon with confession
and still breaks its bread on the table of the starving
virtuous bloody Sunday
beating at wrist with Roman nails
wearing its tears in a crown of thorns
and sumptuous retires in a fat kissed bangle

Sunday; the barricade of belief
that knowingly knows no one should work
while the vultures are picking at societies bones
and the Papal sacrament makes you homeless
on the bleached and baking wastelands of Earth

This is Sunday
in all its finery of dripping candels
and out of tune hymns
stained glasses of faith
and broken bent knees

Sunday
feckless
Sunday

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