The Self-God

I am the self-god carved from bone

Risen from the deprived depths

Where I once lay neglected

By the impotent church

Who couldn't achieve a bone

Never mind be made of the stuff

I am the self-god, conceived of truth

speaking out against the liar church

the ones who come with empty pockets

and leave with pockets stuffed with blood

and sometimes cash

I am not so easily shaken

I am the self-god, the skeptical one

Who even doubts himself

If I call you into question

Then I should call myself into question too

But I've stood strong against you

And your stones are overturned

I am the self-god, disciple of science

One who revels in truth

I care not for your creation

Because it is as thin as the pages

Of the lies you read in your book

But I have many books

I am the self-god, born from knowledge

And I have read and measured and seen

And my heaven is filled with truth

And my heaven is filled with science

And the demons crawl on the face of the church

screaming, "Mene Mene Tekel Uparsin"

I am the self-god, agnostic and atheist (sometimes)

I only believe in myself

Because you have offered little proof

When the children starve you have faith

While I question the need of you

Sitting on your golden thrones

I am the self-god, born of blood

Shed by your blade

Left rotting in the fields

Didn't you know that

If you leave blood for long enough

It will stand up and demand voting rights

I am the self-god, found in flesh

Proud of the deepest urge that you neglect

That you pile under your bullshit

Calling it "ethic"

Didn't you know your mom and dad fucked

To make you?

-o0o-

Done (The Last Poem of 2011)

Spun thin like cotton strands

Pulled thin like an elastic band

Beaten thin like gold foil

Their greedy hands

I watch my head boil

in the mirror, covered in sand

And I'm pissed off and used

Hiding under the dune

Like a snake, coiled

All my plans foiled

And I get up and mess up your plans

Leaving you confused

With my skin shed, the old part of me you abused

-o0o-

Never Rose

Perhaps a little song for Rose

     A girl caught in the proper pose

         To walk on eggshells, pointed toes

To be the best she can be

The perfect wife, she cooks and sews

     She scrubs and cleans, she weeds and sows

         Her proper manner, her neat clothes

To be the best she can be

Her short-cut nails, her powdered nose

     Her hair tied up with lace and bows

         Hair prim, regardless when wind blows

To be the best she can be

Ever cites the sweetest prose

     She's never haughty, never gauche

         She plays the game as best she knows

To be the best she can be

She's ever careful where she goes

     The party halls, the movie shows

         Prefers the well-lit aisle-side rows

To be the best she can be

Her eyes as gentle as a doe's

     Belies her deeper troubled woes

         She hides her heart's most inner throws

To be the best she can be