Somoshree Palit
As I lie on the ground tell no one of me,
That there is some corner of a forbidden mount
To remain forever holy. I would be
A Eucharist substitute, a bacchic surmount
Of wasted wine when His blood won’t quench
The homeless silhouettes on a nameless bench:
The patron saint of a sacrifice.
The patron saint of your demise.
Ad astra, ad astra, ad astra the ancient chant :
A vinyl played on the stairs to sin;
And all that boast of heraldry can’t
But bring with Eden a corpse of mangled skin.
Do I dare commit the heresies?
Tell you His rights are all His prophecies?
That to hate His lies is despair –
Do I dare? Do I dare? Do I dare?
The Ferryman wades through Stygian waters
Crowds of gods, the mouthless dead
Scream the names of men and martyrs :
What did it take? It’s easy to be dead.
They would say, “Off with that spiteful mouth,
Off with the jester’s spineless head”.
I replace Indifference with blood black lies and
Parables.
Purgatory.
Paradise.
Dawn opens like a wound. The poppies red
Are in their stead quite forgiving.
They timely lament the forgotten dead,
I choose to lament the forgotten living.
Perhaps the noose would let me see
Man raised to a putrid divinity.
Will my Holy sarcasm appetize the Reaper?
Tell me – Am I my brother’s keeper?
Death stood in triumph; sacred, still :
When Life’s infant teething began.
Disobedience was not an apple until
“Did I solicit thee to mould me man?”
God I want you through a chaste Victorian lie
Where a sight of your ankles makes me die.
God I want you in cells with sewers beneath,
Like animals desire, primal and full of teeth.
These gods won’t await a Bacchic flush.
These gods won’t awaken a Phoebean lyre.
Their way to godhood was but to brush
Cigarette mouths with Promethean fire.
There is no Eucharist in my sacrilege –
There is slaughter in a jester’s privilege.
Often a Fool, often a fester :
I am not god, I am his court jester.
You begin your life at the stroke of a knife
You begin your life with a hunch –
That the ones you meet with weary feet
Would eat their gods for lunch.
This is my god, there’s no one above him.
This is my god, I need a heart to love him.
This is my god, there’s no one above him.
This is my god. I need a shovel to love him.