Murder of One

Should I murder God,

In the midst of night,

Would anyone take notice

Of the bloodied sky?

If in a beggar’s prostration,

Cup in hand, awaiting charitable mercy

And alcoholic warmth, I am injured enough

To commit murder, may I deem it just?

Just, in that I am no mercy

Or worthy of such prayers,

So why does the Almighty,

Not heed them thus?

Why must it be left,

To those themselves tortured

By life in entirety, to answer the cries

Intended for a Creator?

Why must selfish life,

Tend to life, and dying flesh,

And deny itself

In favour of another's burden?

I look on with pity, at shivering bodies

At warm conscious corpses

In the icy winter wind, which bites me so

And see respite in death alone.

Coming to revile all spirituality,

Reverence for divinity, and adherence to scriptures;

All selfish and hollow, like my complaints,

Like their begging, like hunger in us all.

If I were to Murder,

So that they should look to none but themselves,

Would I not be righteous, in removing false hope,

And preaching of life as it is, rather than were?

In my heart lies an empty grave, engraved thus;

"Here lays the Lord, slain in battle",

For I knew the day would come,

When I could no longer bear the ceaseless cries of suffering.

If I were to Murder, the Maker of all pains and sorrows,

Of the Heavens and the Earth,

Of the fires of Hell, of famine and death, of life so ugly,

And despairing. Of pain itself, of being, being in a place of constant sorrows,

Measured by their temporary cessation, as a break in the clouds,

Which we cling to like a moment of sunshine, smiling, forgetting always

That sadness is the rule. Would it all be in vain,

I fear, would anyone notice?

I fancy they would continue in their ways,

Clinging to time honoured traditions,

Archaic methods contrary to reason,

Unjust in the zeitgeist which post-dates their relevance.

I fear it would pointless, and though I long for no credit in the deed,

It would be unheeded all the same; as they would remain unchanged,

For they require no God, no Truth, no Fire in the sky,

So long as they have rules, and false hopes.

Imagination and machinations that would continue regardless, in spite of facts,

Thus rendering the service meaningless, and prayers harder to bear.

Irrelevant is the truth, and less relevant miracles,

They ask nothing of anything,

And like sheep follow for their own selfish fears,

Reproducing them in children, such that idiocy should live on.

In spite of the Virgin, and her Son on the Cross,

In spite of their neighbours, in spite of humanity,

In spite of anything,

In spite, they live on.

By Haemophiliac

Finished 22/12/09

A Prayer for the Dark

Insoluble in life, dissolved in darkness

Without ghosts or apparitions,

Solitary, even in embrace,

Save for smiles, and the sharing of common pains.

In a wilderness, I echo amongst the trees

Life in abundance, occupying space alone.

Voids fill voids, formless gravity connects one to another

No strings to pull on, empty in ourselves.

We create creators to escape isolation,

But I know better than this

Afraid of the dark,

With no angels to comfort me.

To cease to be, once we have existed

In a child’s cries, lies proof of life.

No Gods to beseech, no Devils to forebode

Afraid of the dark,

In a starless room

I am alone.

A prayer for the night, on my flesh I compose,

When I am engulfed, let life live on.

My kidneys to the needy,

Let them be purified by me alone.

My liver to an alcoholic, for he has lived,

And found demons where I saw none.

Blood to all those longing,

Or drain in the gutters if my thoughts are polluted thus.

Let my marrow be used to fight cancers

Which plagued all efforts to love.

And if science should permit,

Gift my eyes too,

Perhaps there is more to see than suffering,

And it was I that knew not how.

My tongue then, to whomever

That I may comfort someone, with a kiss

Or simple words. Taste life anew,

This time maybe not so bitter.

Let me not forget

Life in totality,

So to the animals my flesh,

And my skin to adorn.

Lastly my heart, let it beat in another

That love should live on,

Regardless of object or form.

Only in this is being, the beauty of moments

Resonating in our breasts, a metronome for existence,

Use the measures for music,

Sing only of love.

My prayer for the dark, for a soulless soul

In life we live on, after we are gone.

With the matter of existing then, create impressions all round

That after the implosion, though the candle exhausted

The waves ripple on.

To face cessation, I have only fear

Of painlessness, when for pain I long.

So let my words carry in the organs, I bequeath to the earth,

The neurons die, all impulses gone

We return to nothing, but in life we live on.

By Haemophiliac.

Finished 17/12/09.