Here’s what passes for a Good Friday:
The drone of bots dropping bombs
in the name of a Man-god,
whose half-breed flesh
and blood have been
transubstantiated
to stand for a peculiar,
store-bought brand of freedom,
freedom we dilute more
with the gallons of others’ blood spilled,
while still others shed their blood
just to taste it.
The celebrated Earth tastes it,
the others' spilled blood.
It’s her day too,
but she’s not in a celebrating mood
what with that sour taste of blood
and the litter of flesh we’ve left.
Their god can sort
the innocent from the guilty.
Our god was crucified today
and we’re taking the afternoon off.
2 comments:
I sometimes think the First World War was an effort to refresh the crucial soils of Europe with bonemeal and fresh fertilizer.
Drones are pretty weird, but a very good indicator of the wisdom of voting Google when the time comes. Sort of like early Soviet elections; all those opposed, stand over there by the sandbag wall.
Thanks for the poem; a thought-maker.
Peter
Us and them...
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