Post by Coquette on Dec 2, 2007 19:24:49 GMT -5
God
Is really just a small boy
With a microphone
Standing over a game board
Making a cacaphony of car crashes,
Children crying out,
And guns weilded by school shooters.
Between the roars,
In the midst of all this din,
The voice of God giggles gleefully
Playfully,
Thrilled with the game he is playing.
The dice pass to the player on the left.
Evil.
A even smaller boy trying to be
A bully
In the playyard,
Whose bark is worse than his bite.
Evil breathes steamy serpentine breath
On the ivory cubes
As his seaweed voice slithers between salted lips.
"Tis no game," he purrs.
"I would never play with you."
Snake eyes.
Betwixt sit I;
Mere humanity torn between the two.
I cannot grip the dice,
They slip through my parted fingers,
Slick with empty threats and empty promises,
Coated with the oil of blackened Evil
On the surface of God's refeshing water.
I glance at the board,
With its pawns of boys born to break hearts
And girls who smell like sex and cigarettes;
Good Christian schoolgirls waiting for reality,
And "Hah-vahd" boys who can't tell the difference
Between homework and hard work.
My simple silver pawn skips past
And I know I'm bound to win.
Twin sixes.
Evil throws the gameboard,
Sending it clattering to the ground
While he extends a small shaking finger
To rest between God's eyes.
"It was you, God,
Who taught them to believe
That unbuttoned blouses lead to better views
Of broken hearts."
I am paradoxed.
I am swayed by the conviction of Evil,
But frozen by God's almighty voice,
So deep from such a small vessel.
"Perhaps."
God gathers up his gameboard,
Rights the tiny pieces,
And we resume play.
While Evil snarls claims of cheating.
And I remain between the two;
Torn,
Hoping to lose my turn
And gain rest from this fateful roundabout.
C. Sirena Zotz. Mine own, not yours.m
Is really just a small boy
With a microphone
Standing over a game board
Making a cacaphony of car crashes,
Children crying out,
And guns weilded by school shooters.
Between the roars,
In the midst of all this din,
The voice of God giggles gleefully
Playfully,
Thrilled with the game he is playing.
The dice pass to the player on the left.
Evil.
A even smaller boy trying to be
A bully
In the playyard,
Whose bark is worse than his bite.
Evil breathes steamy serpentine breath
On the ivory cubes
As his seaweed voice slithers between salted lips.
"Tis no game," he purrs.
"I would never play with you."
Snake eyes.
Betwixt sit I;
Mere humanity torn between the two.
I cannot grip the dice,
They slip through my parted fingers,
Slick with empty threats and empty promises,
Coated with the oil of blackened Evil
On the surface of God's refeshing water.
I glance at the board,
With its pawns of boys born to break hearts
And girls who smell like sex and cigarettes;
Good Christian schoolgirls waiting for reality,
And "Hah-vahd" boys who can't tell the difference
Between homework and hard work.
My simple silver pawn skips past
And I know I'm bound to win.
Twin sixes.
Evil throws the gameboard,
Sending it clattering to the ground
While he extends a small shaking finger
To rest between God's eyes.
"It was you, God,
Who taught them to believe
That unbuttoned blouses lead to better views
Of broken hearts."
I am paradoxed.
I am swayed by the conviction of Evil,
But frozen by God's almighty voice,
So deep from such a small vessel.
"Perhaps."
God gathers up his gameboard,
Rights the tiny pieces,
And we resume play.
While Evil snarls claims of cheating.
And I remain between the two;
Torn,
Hoping to lose my turn
And gain rest from this fateful roundabout.
C. Sirena Zotz. Mine own, not yours.m
