In His name, the exhausted one,

He who dwell’th in the cloudy yonder.

Adorned at his side with the mightiest spirits

and angels, preserving the message of faithful.

Could it be an atom of primal truth?

The idea of such an eternal abode?

The concept that we, here on earth are alone

left to battle the forces of darkness with stone?


Place all your money in the silver bowl

which shall be passed around 

from the font to the dome,

for even the mightiest God is not impervious

to the grip of the tax-man and hold of the throne.

It is argued that faith is all that will preserve us

from joining the ranks of the animal kingdom,

but, I say, that things are a little more simple:

we are but the beasts with a language and symbol.

A grasp of the logic of equations mathematic,

and words in a row that rhyme as if magic

and sonnets that shape our feelings and habits,

but do not be fooled, these things are in transit.


We are but a blip on the screen of eternity,

a chance realization of form and of function,

a fish that grew into a billion lost people;

Who one-hundred others herd into the steeple.

“Praise in His name He who gives us our life!

And praise to His son, in the form of the light!

Crush His enemies who may change overnight,

your monthly subscriptions educate you right.”

Life here and after is ethereal in nature,

it owes to no man, to no mortal creator,

to give up your soul to an organised faith 

is to march with the armies of murder and rape.