He who receives baptism by rain at 3a.m.
not renewed from yesterday’s ritual piss up;
a twelve-dollar bottle with the supermarket voucher
his warm companion worn like a cotton blanket
to survive cold burning by internal fire almost out.
The new congregation meets on Hobson Street, man,
they have a green building and a morning door open
but mass is usually acted roadside as I’ve witnessed.
There is the park bench saint with his Burger King crown.
Two twenty somethings stuck on the glue.
A former construction worker with malt gold lining mouth to shirt.
There are eight bearded gurus from Grafton on fumy incense.
And my khaki comandante from Aotea Square-
out again since his last liquor store liberation.
No one is addicted or dependent here, man,
reverence of chemical welfare alive and uncontested:
these are followers paying simple homage to the fag,
the resin bag and the national brew.
No one can give back rational thought now, man,
they took the offering with bare hands wide open
but the side streets are broken, in all lights giving
that grey stained window with glass shards scattering hope.
My comandante lies awake with himself today, emptier
than his draught can. Tell him ‘the faith must be kept, kept strong!’
Isn’t the institution compelling now? We have gold coated Catholicism
and strident Presbyterianism and crusading whatever to give the same answer…
My comandante hears bells knelling in his swollen ears,
you know man, if only he had enough money for both smokes
and a pass to carpeted heaven!
My comandante laughs gravelly, they share real poverty together.
not renewed from yesterday’s ritual piss up;
a twelve-dollar bottle with the supermarket voucher
his warm companion worn like a cotton blanket
to survive cold burning by internal fire almost out.
The new congregation meets on Hobson Street, man,
they have a green building and a morning door open
but mass is usually acted roadside as I’ve witnessed.
There is the park bench saint with his Burger King crown.
Two twenty somethings stuck on the glue.
A former construction worker with malt gold lining mouth to shirt.
There are eight bearded gurus from Grafton on fumy incense.
And my khaki comandante from Aotea Square-
out again since his last liquor store liberation.
No one is addicted or dependent here, man,
reverence of chemical welfare alive and uncontested:
these are followers paying simple homage to the fag,
the resin bag and the national brew.
No one can give back rational thought now, man,
they took the offering with bare hands wide open
but the side streets are broken, in all lights giving
that grey stained window with glass shards scattering hope.
My comandante lies awake with himself today, emptier
than his draught can. Tell him ‘the faith must be kept, kept strong!’
Isn’t the institution compelling now? We have gold coated Catholicism
and strident Presbyterianism and crusading whatever to give the same answer…
My comandante hears bells knelling in his swollen ears,
you know man, if only he had enough money for both smokes
and a pass to carpeted heaven!
My comandante laughs gravelly, they share real poverty together.
Gender:
Points: 1072
Reviews: 23