Sermon for the Drowned Cunt of God
The Monsoon Deluge
don't talk to her about faith.
talk to her about the fangs in the water.
about the slick soft things
that stole her sons
right out of her arms
like your god’s fingers still wet from the last girl he judged.
-
she never learned the names of your prophets.
never saw your temples.
they built no altars in her mud.
but the sky cracked open anyway,
like a holy cunt birthing nothing but rain.
-
her boys screamed.
she swallowed it.
no elegy. no dove. no ark.
only rotwood and the sound of lungs forgetting air.
-
you think you know wrath?
you think flood means cleanse?
-
the trees are gone.
the river is rising.
the world is all wet grave now.
-
and she—
she's the last dry thought
in the mind of a dying world.
-
so go ahead, preacher.
open your book.
read her your favorite bit.
she’ll gouge the words from your throat
and feed them to the storm.
.
About the Creator
Iris Obscura
Do I come across as crass?
Do you find me base?
Am I an intellectual?
Or an effed-up idiot savant spewing nonsense, like... *beep*
Is this even funny?
I suppose not. But, then again, why not?
Read on...
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Comments (4)
Yes to feeding pulpit words to the storm. And an even bigger yes to the rage in the poem. Perfectly written!
gorgeously written. Feel the anger in the words
This is fucking beautiful!
Interesting, sad, striking, but in its anger beautiful. a very you sorta poem, Iris!