jesus, have pity on me – i
am a mere child in a world
of snarling, ugly beasts
without fangs, without
reason, but with some
obscure fear that causes
them to snarl one minute
and cry out in agony the
next. consciousness –
that is why they hate,
what they hate. and
humanity – oh, it is a
foul word, it means
naught to us – refuses
outright to know itself,
and jesus, jesus, save
us from ourselves.

have pity on me, jesus, for
i am only human and they,
those falsely lofty men who
tell us that we are animals,
call this the ‘human condition’
as if we will improve! i do
not think we will; still we
rage and scorn as abused
dogs at our masters – and
therefore eternity may
laugh at us behind our
backs while we laugh at
debauchery and never
realise that what we fear
and what we hate grow
daily. truthfully, i fear the
night, the cold, blistery
nights in the highlands
where men once lived
and fought and died
as men – peaceful, even
beautiful scotland is, but
at night i cannot stand
its terror. i fear an arctic
hand will reach for me
from the confines of
the north and whisk me
away to the far corners
of the world – alone,
alone, where i will see
endless space and perish
at the mere thought of it.

but then there is jesus,
jesus, who they say died
for my sins and died to
save this disgusting,
loathsome world the
louts and drunks and
ignorant, mindless filth
polluted with their hateful
speeches on how i am
meant to serve men who
are not worthy to be
served, much less own
their own hearts. men
like these suck the air
around themselves
dry, then complain that
they cannot breathe.

y enta solteàre les brisai sa
canterbryn ða lhiricanten
sale culeàren, yet they
will never know of that
which they sing, or that
which makes a man believe
it – a dream is a dream is
a world, though every last
child breathing the air of
my birthplace will spew
forth that air from the
trembling little mouths
that will one day spit
forth lies, heresy, stupid
bromidic arguments
condemning man, the
beast, whom jesus loves
despite man’s inherent
terror.

and we are terrible, i
will admit – too terrible
to ignore, i suppose, and
i can only guess that that
is the cause of denial, why
we change our hearts and
minds and ideas faster
than we could change
trousers full of spiders
and ricin powder. we
are all conditioned to
be fickle for sixty years
and then die without
having lived, we sickly
modern humans.

---

Y enta solteàre les brisai sa canterbryn ða lhiricanten sale culeàren:I love to hearthe winds of Canterbury in the songs of the children. 'Tis Saelraite.

Random trivia: I’m an atheist who reveres nature to the point of godless paganism, not a Christian, though my father is Catholic and my mum’s family is Anglican. Go figure. The meaning of the poem lies in my appreciation for faith and religion’s partially dark, partially light, side, though I suck at this whole clarity thing.