chopped chips

chips chopped from the wood
we are by that ferocious forester
sodomite God define our night,
tattered dreams hoisted like banners
flap flags listless in that good night
and run like memories dejected
back to the source that
rejects us

the one wherefrom nothing emanates
all essence and essential
definition, the lithe logos that washed the
face of the waters was witless
wishful thinking left wistfully
missing the blisses listed
as heaven and all that
shit

the fishy soul-seer that
would have shelved our selves
there would quite have liked
to swim in this Christ’s
white piss, Joseph the Jew knew
a mummy’s tummy no God yet
shat in was always still
a thin thing and he did not think

“honest, my dear, an angel raped me”
could explain that nasty foetation
quickening untimely in allegedly unfucked
tummy absolutely
satisfactorily

by David McLean