Religion

Citadel reverberates to a thousand voices, now dumb:
what have we become? What have we chosen to be?
Now, all history is reduced to the syllables of our name -
nothing can ever be the same now the Immortals are here.
At the time, it seemed a reasonable course
to harness all the force of life without the threat of death,
but soon we found
that boredom and inertia are not negative,
but all the law we know
and dead are Will and words like survival.

Arrival at immunity from all age, all fear and all end....
Why do I pretend? Our essence is distilled

All humans are siblings, this is a truth that I've assumed; all fighting over the legacy of a lifelong and timeless family feud in the name of I don't know what. I don't believe in God but if I did I'd surely say there is only one Power up above us, one face refracted in each different Faith.
But for every holy confessor there's a priest of self-worth trading in the eternal for power on earth.

Besieged in the battlements of Babylon,
still looking for a hat-peg you can hang your head upon -
now you've found a place you think is Avalon:
you can talk to anyone here.
You can throw your arms around your nearest neighbour
and the smiling ones'll tell you that you've saved her,
that she's saved you....
They offer the golden promises,
the instantly divine;
you swallow the golden promises
hook, sinker and line.

If you choose to throw your soul around the attitude
reasoning and independent thought go down the tube
as you go slavering after every inane platitude -

Such distance to the tips of the fingers,
the ganglion loom jerks inside;
the body grows steadily stranger
but the spirit won't be denied.

That sharp halogen flash jars the eyeball,
the limbs pump in overdrive;
the body grows seemingly weaker
but the spirit won't be denied.

Yeah, the ash-mark stands out on the forehead
as the vacuum sneaks up on the eyes;
the body becomes a constant traitor
but the spirit won't be denied.

And they call that living a normal life,
but normality's not standardised.
Though the body gets ever more root-bound

She likes to keep God out of church,
especially when she prays:
all in its place, all safely stored
for some rogation day....
the paradox is so apparent,
the sense absurd, but all too real;
the nonsense is arrant
but she just wants to feel comfortable.

A pound in the collection-box,
a name-plate by the aisle;
she always wears a hat,
for He'll appreciate the style.
Pays no attention to the sermon,
Christ in himself has no appeal,
the social custom is the turn-on
and she just wants to feel comfortable.

Treading not on her illusions,

Genuflection, erection in church.
Sacristy cloth, moth-eaten shroud.
Secret silence, sacred secrets
accumulate dust, aggravate the eye.

Incautious laughter after confession.
Benediction, fictional fear.
Hidden faces...Grace is a name,
like Chastity, like Lucifer, like mine.

You took me through the window-stain,
drowned in image, incense,
choir-refrain and slow ecstasy.
I'd embrace you if I only knew your name.

The silent corner haunts my shadow prayers.
ice-cold statue, rapture divine,