word

when the priests they came to see me they were baying for my head
not for aught that i had done but words they’d heard i said
and standing before witnesses they told me i should know
if god would only grant them blades they’d strike the fatal blow
but here i still stand living and of all the gods i’ve heard
not a one has proved to be more real than a word

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christmas time

sonny’s wearing mirror shades
while mommy cooks the books
daddy’s preaching to the choir
and giving us rude looks

it must be christmas time again
as anyone can see
that everything once held in trust
no longer comes for free

sister’s taking off her clothes
to please some sad old men
while grandmama is fiddling with
her fiddle now and then

it must be christmas time they say
goodwill and all that crap
the hymns and carols have all gone
replaced by righteous rap

they’re dancing in the courtyards still
and playing to the crowd
the thoughts once thought forbidden
are spoken now aloud

it must be christmas time I’m sure
the trumps have played their song
how could it be another time
when all we knew is wrong

my god

my god is a body that lies across the water
the price of her protection is all a man can give
while the arrows fly in the heat of the slaughter
nothing less will do if you truly want to live

my god is a heart that beats in the darkness
she waits for us to come to her and light the sacred flames
many times I’ve prayed for an end to this starkness
but what she wills is what will be and gods enjoys their games

my god is a spirit that frolics in damnation
she calls on us to sacrifice our blood to her own need
nothing we can do will lessen her predation
not while she can caper and watch her people bleed

Christmastime

Christmas, lord it’s Christmas, and there’s nothing you can do
but to pray to any passing god that you can struggle through
you have no choice at all it seems, a servant to your fate
just dancing decorously round the people that you hate

have another sandwich dear, perhaps a piece of cake
your stomachs full, your back is sore, your smile muscles ache
and that is it, you’ve had enough, you scream leave me alone
you storm right out, and slam the door, then go home on your own

and home is as you left it, the precious balm of peace
there’s nothing could be better to bring you sweet release
and as you sit yourself down, and take a sip of beer
you promise that you’re staying home at Christmastime next year

deem

I deem this world a loathsome place
where one should hide not show their face
and search no more for god’s own grace
for god himself is lost
and though you may by strength of arm
protect yourself from egregious harm
still would you purchase any balm
no matter what the cost

the dreams and hopes that one endures
are palliatives and not yet cures
the cloud of death the truth obscures
from all who would know peace
and when it finally comes for thee
and death alone is all you see
then can you sing at last I’m free
and welcome your release

illusion

i have come to the conclusion that my life is an illusion
and i have only ever seen a fragment of the real
but there’s no point complaing ’cause nobody’s explaining
what to do, or where, or why, or just how i should feel
and nothing’s been decided nor any truths confided
so all i do is roll along in patterns i can’t see
and if that thought gives you trouble, you can bet it gives me double
but that’s what i am stuck with ’til the day i can break free

ghost

I dreamed a ghost and the ghost was here
with a big glass bong and a barrel of beer
so I kissed it once though I know it’s a sin
but you can’t get there if you don’t begin
then we had us a drink and a righteous hit
and discussed how the world was going to shit
but the world don’t care for the ghost and I
it keeps rolling on ‘neath a moonstruck sky
so we had us a beer and another toke
and agreed the world was a mad god’s joke

Billy Doo

Billy Doo writes love songs
in the dark and dreary night
then turns his face to heaven
to set the world aright
and laughter is a medicine
though he has none to spare
caught in an illusion
that’s as real as any snare
Billy writes of love and lust
and other passing dreams
but nothing is as it once was
and never was it seems
so get down on your knees he says
and lift your voice on high
pray with everything thing you’ve got
to a dark uncaring sky
and if your skin is hard enough
and if your luck is good
you might survive another day
though he’s not sure you should
but Billy Doo writes love songs
to the world that he once knew
for in the end there’s nothing else
that Billy needs to do

just

love is for losers
peace is for fools
faith is for children
who need lots of rules
hope is a fiction
courage a bust
life is for living
but only just

weeping

they tell me there are ways and means
to shape my life anew
that living isn’t over yet
and I’ll get over you
they miss the point the prattling fools
I already know this
and it’s not love I’m weeping for
it’s your money I will miss