(no subject)

[taratemima]

Somehow, reviews of the Passion made me write this poem.



Our whips
purge our sins
so we can
execute the heathens.

We wear our hairshirts into the slaughter,
for we will be forgiven
for burning villages alive
and groaning women.

Like Amalek,
like Banu Quaryish,
like the Albiengians,
the Mother of Assassins bless us
the Father of the Brutal Death.

We imitate the martyrs,
imitating Jesus
imitating Samson
imitating Ali.
Our sins are purified by our blood,
then the blood of those not us.

See how much he suffered for you?
You must suffer more,
and make them suffer more than you.

Ever since creation,
we were God's first mistake.
Our first mistake was
forgetting him.
We remember by cuts and bullet wounds,
we shall make people remember
by blows to the head and cutting of limbs.

No Resurrection after the Crucifixation,
no freeing of the slaves after
the coming of the Angel of Death.

Decapitate the scholars,
cut the hands of the poets,
cut the feet of the dancers,
cut out the hearts of the compassionate,
make the healer eat offal
before filling his bowels until he bursts.
We have no need for them.
Blood is the only language now,
to paraphrase a poet after a suicide bombing
(is he afraid? proud?).

Have no fear,
our god knows his own.

(Someone wipe my face,
give me a cool drink,
cry for me,
tell me there is more
than this,
more than this)