Sacrosanct are
the men of God.

In truth, this
is a god of men,
made in their own image
from the crucifying cloth of hate,
that has tightly bound the blessing hands of
healers, shamans, midwifes,
women wise in herbal lore,
and strangled those who speak
truth to power
with a hanging noose
strung from the tree of forbidden knowledge.

 

This monstrous god

is crimson dyed with the only original sin-
denying us the truth of our original innocence -

and stitched with missionary zeal 

into a brimstone spectre,
a god of straw and spit and venom,
one that thunders and shakes from the pulpit
with  mad demand,
serving only men of power,
by offering the carrot of rosy tomorrow

as eternal empty promise 

ensuring servitude 

today.

 

The Infallible mouthpiece of god,
that clever Vatican ventriloquism,
hypnotises the masses
with decrees designed to
choke the flowering of thought,

outside the rigid confines
of testament.

Coffers are full in golden cities,
and on dark continents,
denied birth control,
famine devours babies
and disease devours flesh.

The daughters of Eve,
original scapegoat and
sacrificial lamb,
still pay her dues
in pound of flesh,
in bodies battered within
bosom of family and
young flesh traded in
frenzied back room traffic

She remains poorest of the poor,
kept from the halls of learning
and the halls of power.
Bought and paid for on the
boulevard of broken dreams
for 15 minutes of bare buttock and pout
and thirty pieces of silver
in a perpetual

motion picture
meat market.

And so we let soft treading apathy stalks us,
so quiet in its thieving, so creeping,
as to go unnoticed until we awaken one morning
with nothing.
 

The Goddess, ancient deity
loved long before patriarchy
seeped into consciousness
like a teeming bloodstain,
inspired hope
promised life
encouraged love
and gifted us
with the power
to create whatever

we could imagine

from an 

opalescent
palette of 

possibilities,
and yet
dark 

remains 

our 

canvas.

The Goddess doesn't
live here anymore
and God is a scarecrow.