The creeping limping feet of worn-out gods
Disturb my sleep; the rotten little sods
After my soul again, that much is clear.
They want my love, or failing that my fear
I used to be immune to all their chat
but ageing and friends’ deaths have weakened that.
I need to keep them out; like rats and mice
they chitter and they shit, and like head lice
they make me scratch and bleed and pick the scab
that once was my belief. They want me drab
and tortured with self-doubt.They want me slaved
to some pathetic hope that I’ll be saved.
And they can fuck right off. At last I’m free
of all the scruples that imprisoned me
And manage to be kind without their nudge.
I stand here unbelieving will not budge
For all I quite suspect that they exist;
I will not pray, but rather make a fist.
The gods that bully us – not worth the spit
I’d waste on altars; some god that would sit
in cafes, drink espresso, be a friend
her I’d consider. I would never send
her prayers – I’d buy her sandwiches and cake.
Though there are principles I wouldn’t break
For any god, I’m flexible as hell
where good times are concerned. A god could sell
a one-on-one relationship with me
no sacrifices, but I’d buy her tea.
And no commandments, though I’d take advice.
No majesty, no terror, someone nice.
We’d flirt a little and then hug goodbye
I’d think about her with a little sigh
So, if she’s out there, please drop me a line.
The others, bearded, threatening, stalking swine
I’m done with you. It’s over, and we’re through
You angels, virgins, saints and martyrs too.