It’s not that what we worship are not gods…
To be without family means divorce from Sunday,
at least estrangement…
a priest who ticks the boxes
toes the line
a dry wife
wrinkles, aches, pains
a straw poll
a puff of smoke
Crouch not near with your olive branch;
Your red wings have broken my peace…
Announce something. Announce me.
Announce the mosaic of this odd-flavoured god
who’s ballooning my breasts…
It was an hour. More or less.
A fracture in our banal stress.
We drank tea as details of our lives
trickled by, a stream we sat beside…
Life is art
Activism is art
Believing is art
On earth as if it’s heaven