For fear and coin

They’ve sung a blackness out of us in the Pentecostal pews and

sang a demon in its place and killed the living light of grace

that shines from where we would not dear to Stand tall and be counted.

The chorus and the roused alike stand forward fix with gaze held straight.

The figure on the wall is dead and represents the real intent

of those that lead the song.

And those that lead the sermons and the preached and dammed and praised

are all together in the halls that they expect the lord to fill.

Shoulder to shoulder for a cause that none remember save to pay.

And none remember those that die and those that give a life for right and those that stand in truths pale light but know a darker shade.

They know a darker day that brings

them weeping at the door of where they will find no respite

and comfort not for the good and right.

The hallelujahs praise and tambourines banged loud and hard.

The tanning the rapscallion receive for sins and faults,

scar the soul as leather flails and lashed skin commits

memories of the judgements hand of shame.

His justice wielded anger slices flesh forbidden to the common.

Swans upon a table fit for kings and them alone, make a feast that we the preached upon must in our humbleness accept that betters do decree.

And what they say must have some sway

on how the life should be for one as ignorant as me and lesser in the wit.

Better them that sit so high looking down from where their sins

cannot be seen where the common eye roves not to witness

whispers begotten in secret worlds.

It is that with no pulpit but a floor of open praise the screaming

and the spirit filled with eyes rolled back and voices shrill will dread

unto the meek instil that they be filled with fear.

Ye lowly ones of no accord and standing there before a lord

would have one think on that same promise sent that makes the murder repent with supplications heavens want to feed beliefs not known.

To belief a finger pointed, sins against the light anointed knowing nothing in belief that bliss is the unknown.

And God is the unknowable they wrongly preach

the empty barrel rolling down a hill of pain that stragglers are struggling to crest.

Dressed in Sunday bests and posing chests and breasts with highness emanating from their inner visions of themselves.

Bunions forced into leather shoes unbroken in.

Feet’s discomfortable wisdom tell the truth.

The tapping worth the beat kept for distractions benefit

and as they sing the chorus rings and words and smells

and visions mix and mingle in kaleidoscopic confusion.

Service ended, what is served is no nourishment

is no cause is no purpose is no lord.

Feeling for detractors and the advocates of devils and the atheist and anarchist that all with ignorance in twist and turning dance a waltz.

Upon the knees the prayers to please are given near the end

as bowls of shekels daringly are jangled through the throng.

The brazen cast their notes in neatly folded squares, the humble flip their coins while the shameless and the guilty fein the placing of their trifle

for they pretend to themselves.

Many a button has been dropped as they sound not dissimilar

to coins when they hit the shrapnel in the bottom of the bowl.

A roof or a new steeple, the flock pay for the organ tuning, alter blooms laid as though upon a tomb in honour of a dead and crucified lord.

The blue eyes on the wall shine down upon the throng

till each and everyone is gone and none save God himself will witness a corpse climb down from the wall and up and out through the doors

bared against the cold. The betrayer counts his haul of pillaged faith

in traded coins for souls salvations and libations poured for guilts and deeds

the fears. Smiling cold awarness brews a hunger for the Sundy next.