Heretical Poems by Michael R. Burch
These are heretical poems written by Michael R. Burch, some in his teens, and the first as a pre-teen... Bible Libel by Michael R. Burch, circa age 11-13 If God is good, half the Bible is libel. I came up with this epigram to express my conclusions after reading the Bible from cover to cover, ten chapters per day, at age eleven. Saving Graces for the Religious Right by Michael R. Burch Life’s saving graces are love, pleasure, laughter (wisdom, it seems, is for the Hereafter). Multiplication, Tabled for the Religious Right by Michael R. Burch “Be fruitful and multiply”— great advice, for a fruitfly! But for women and men, simple Simons, say, “WHEN!” Willy Nilly for the Demiurge, aka Yahweh/Jehovah by Michael R. Burch Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly? You made the stallion, you made the filly, and now they sleep in the dark earth, stilly. Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly? Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly? You forced them to run all their days uphilly. They ran till they dropped— life’s a pickle, dilly. Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly? Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly? They say I should worship you! Oh, really! They say I should pray so you’ll not act illy. Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly? What Would Santa Claus Say by Michael R. Burch What would Santa Claus say, I wonder, about Jesus returning to Rage and Plunder? For he’ll likely return on Christmas Day to blow the bad little boys away! When He flashes like lightning across the skies and many a homosexual dies, when the harlots and heretics are ripped asunder, what will the Easter Bunny think, I wonder? A Child’s Christmas Prayer of Despair for a Hindu Saint by Michael R. Burch Santa Claus, for Christmas, please, don’t bring me toys, or games, or candy . . . just . . . Santa, please . . . I’m on my knees! . . . please don’t let Jesus torture Gandhi! gimME that ol’ time religion! by michael r. burch fiddle-dee-dum, fiddle-dee-dee, jesus loves and understands ME! safe in his grace, I’LL send them to hell— the strumpet, the harlot, the wild jezebel, the alky, the druggie, all queers short and tall! let them drink ashes and wormwood and gall, ’cause fiddle-dee-DUMB, fiddle-dee-WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEee . . . jesus loves and understands ME! who, US? by michael r. burch jesus was born a palestinian child where there's no Room for the meek and the mild ... and in bethlehem still to this day, lambs are born to cries of "no Room! " and Puritanical scorn... under Herod, Trump, Bibi their fates are the same — the slouching Beast mauls them and WE have no shame... "who's to blame? " In the poem "US" means both the United States and "us" the people of the world, wherever we live. The name "jesus" is uncapitalized while "Room" is capitalized because it seems many evangelical Christians are more concerned about land and not sharing it with the less fortunate, than the teachings of Jesus Christ. Also, Jesus and his parents were refugees for whom there was "no Room" to be found. What would Jesus think of Christian scorn for the less fortunate, one wonders? Pagans Protest the Intolerance of Christianity by Michael R. Burch “We have a common sky.” — Quintus Aurelius Symmachus (c. 345-402) We had a common sky before the Christians came. We thought there might be gods but did not know their names. The common stars above us? They winked, and would not tell. Yet now our fellow mortals claim our questions merit hell! The cause of our damnation? They claim they’ve seen the LIGHT ... but still the stars wink down at us, as wiser beings might. When I Was Small, I Grew by Michael R. Burch When I was small, God held me in thrall: Yes, He was my All but my spirit was crushed. As I grew older my passions grew bolder even as Christ grew colder. My distraught mother blushed: what was I thinking, with feral lust stinking? If I saw a girl winking my face, heated, flushed. “Go see the pastor!” Mom screamed. A disaster. I whacked away faster, hellbound, yet nonplused. Whips! Chains! Domination! Sweet, sweet, my Elation! With each new sensation, blue blood groinward rushed. Did God disapprove? Was Christ not behooved? At least I was moved by my hellish lust. lust by michael r. burch i was only a child in a world dark and wild seeking affection in eyes mild and in all my bright dreams sweet love shimmered, beguiled... but the black-robed Priest who called me the least of all god's creation then spoke for the Beast: he called my great passion a thing base, defiled! He condemned me to hell, the foul Ne'er-Do-Well, for the sake of the copper His Pig-Snout could smell in the purse of my mother, "the whore jezebel." my sweet passions condemned by ungenerous men? and she so devout she exclaimed, "yay, aye-men! "... together we learned why Religion is hell. Tillage by Michael R. Burch What stirs within me is no great welling straining to flood forth, but an emptiness waiting to be filled. I am not an orchard ready to be harvested, but a field rough and barren waiting to be tilled. Practice Makes Perfect by Michael R. Burch I have a talent for sleep; it’s one of my favorite things. Thus when I sleep, I sleep deep ... at least till the stupid clock rings. I frown as I squelch its loud beep, then fling it aside to resume my practice for when I’ll sleep deep in a silent and undisturbed tomb. Enough! by Michael R. Burch It’s not that I don’t want to die; I shall be glad to go. Enough of diabetes pie, and eating sickly crow! Enough of win and place and show. Enough of endless woe! Enough of suffering and vice! I’ve said it once; I’ll say it twice: I shall be glad to go. But why the hell should I be nice when no one asked for my advice? So grumpily I’ll go ... although (most probably) below. Redefinitions by Michael R. Burch Faith: falling into the same old claptrap. Religion: the ties that blind. pretty pickle by michael r. burch u’d blaspheme if u could because ur God’s no good, but of course u cant: ur just a lowly ant (or so u were told by a Hierophant). Defenses by Michael R. Burch Beyond the silhouettes of trees stark, naked and defenseless there stand long rows of sentinels: these pert white picket fences. Now whom they guard and how they guard, the good Lord only knows; but savages would have to laugh observing the tidy rows. Listen by Michael R. Burch Listen to me now and heed my voice; I am a madman, alone, screaming in the wilderness, but listen now. Listen to me now, and if I say that black is black, and white is white, and in between lies gray, I have no choice. Does a madman choose his words? They come to him, the moon’s illuminations, intimations of the wind, and he must speak. But listen to me now, and if you hear the tolling of the judgment bell, and if its tone is clear, then do not tarry, but listen, or cut off your ears, for I Am weary. Less Heroic Couplets: Funding Fundamentals by Michael R. Burch “I found out that I was a Christian for revenue only and I could not bear the thought of that, it was so ignoble.” — Mark Twain Making sense from nonsense is quite sensible! Suppose you’re running low on moolah, need some cash to paint your toes ... Just invent a new religion; claim it saves lost souls from hell; have the converts write you checks; take major debit cards as well; take MasterCard and Visa and good-as-gold Amex; hell, lend and charge them interest, whether payday loan or flex. Thus out of perfect nonsense, glittery ores of this great mine, you’ll earn an easy living and your toes will truly shine! Originally published by Lighten Up Online
fog by michael r. burch ur just a bit of fluff drifting out over the ocean, unleashing an atom of rain, causing a minor commotion, for which u expect awesome GODS to pay u SUPREME DEVOTION! ... but ur just a smidgen of mist unlikely to be missed ... where did u get the notion? thanksgiving prayer of the parasites by michael r. burch GODD is great; GODD is good; let us thank HIM for our food. by HIS hand we all are fed; give us now our daily dead: ah-men! (p.s., most gracious & salacious HEAVENLY LORD, we thank YOU in advance for meals galore of loverly gore: of precious delicious sumptuous scrumptious human flesh!) no foothold by michael r. burch there is no hope; therefore i became invulnerable to love. now even god cannot move me: nothing to push or shove, no foothold. so let me live out my remaining days in clarity, mine being the only nativity, my death the final crucifixion and apocalypse, as far as the i can see ... u-turn: another way to look at religion by michael r. burch ... u were borne orphaned from Ecstasy into this lower realm: just one of the inching worms dreaming of Beatification; u'd love to make a u-turn back to Divinity, but having misplaced ur chrysalis, can only chant magical phrases, like Circe luring ulysses back into the pigsty ... Red State Religion Rejection Slip by Michael R. Burch I’d like to believe in your LORD but I really can’t risk it when his world is as badly composed as a half-baked biscuit. You by Michael R. Burch For thirty years You have not spoken to me; I heard the dull hollow echo of silence as though a communion between us. For thirty years You would not open to me; You remained closed, hard and tense, like a clenched fist. For thirty years You have not broken me with Your alien ways and Your distance. Like a child dismissed, I have watched You prey upon the hope in me, knowing “mercy” is chance and “heaven”—a list. I’ve got Jesus’s face on a wallet insert by Michael R. Burch for the Religious Right I’ve got Jesus’s face on a wallet insert and "Hell is for Queers" on the back of my shirt. And I uphold the Law, for Grace has a Flaw: the Church must have someone to drag through the dirt. I’ve got ten thousand reasons why Hell must exist, and you’re at the top of my fast-swelling list! You’re nothing like me, so God must agree and slam down the Hammer with His Loving Fist! For what are the chances that God has a plan to save everyone: even Boy George and Wham!? Eternal fell torture in Hell’s pressure scorcher will separate h0m0 from Man. I’m glad I’m redeemed, ecstatic you’re not. Did Christ die for sinners? Perish the thought! The "good news" is this: soon My vengeance is his!, for you’re not the lost sheep We sought. jesus hates me, this i know by michael r. burch jesus hates me, this I know, for Church libel tells me so: "little ones to him belong" but if they use their dongs, so long! yes, jesus hates me! yes, jesus baits me! yes, he berates me! Church libel tells me so! jesus fleeces us, i know, for Religion scams us so: little ones are brainwashed to believe god saves the Chosen Few! yes, jesus fleeces! yes, he deceases the bunny and the rhesus because he's mad at you! jesus hates me—christ who died so i might be crucified: for if i use my active brain, that will drive the "lord" insane! yes, jesus hates me! yes, jesus baits me! yes, he berates me! Church libel tells me so! jesus hates me, this I know, for Church libel tells me so: first priests tell me "look above," that christ's the lamb and god's the dove, but then they sentence me to Hell for using my big brain too well! yes, jesus hates me! yes, jesus baits me! yes, he berates me! Church libel tells me so! and then i was made whole by michael r. burch ... and then i was made whole, but not a thing entire, glued to a perch in a gilded church, strung through with a silver wire ... singing a little of this and of that, warbling higher and higher: a thing wholly dead till I lifted my head and spat at the Lord and his choir. Starting from Scratch with Ol’ Scratch by Michael R. Burch for the Religious Right Love, with a small, fatalistic sigh went to the ovens. Please don’t bother to cry. You could have saved her, but you were all caught up complaining about the Jews to Reichmeister Grupp. Scratch that. You were born after World War II. You had something more important to do: while the children of the Nakba were perishing in Gaza with the complicity of your government, you had a noble cause (a religious tract against homosexual marriage and various things gods and evangelists disparage.) Jesus will grok you? Ah, yes, I’m quite sure that your intentions were good and ineluctably pure. After all, what the hell does he care about Palestinians? Certainly, Christians were right about serfs, slaves and Indians. Scratch that. You’re one of the Devil’s minions. In His Kingdom of Corpses by Michael R. Burch In His kingdom of corpses, God has been heard to speak in many enraged discourses, high, high from some mountain peak where He’s lectured man on compassion while the sparrows around Him fell, and babes, for His meager ration of rain, died and went to hell, unbaptized, for that’s His fashion. In His kingdom of corpses, God has been heard to vent in many obscure discourses on the need for man to repent, to admit that he’s a sinner; give up s-x, and riches, and fame; be disciplined at his dinner though always he dies the same, whether fatter or thinner. In his kingdom of corpses, God has been heard to speak in many absurd discourses of man’s Ego, precipitous Peak!, while demanding praise and worship, and the bending of every knee. And though He sounds like the Devil, all religious men now agree He loves them indubitably. Beast 666 by Michael R. Burch “what rough beast...slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?”?W. B. Yeats Brutality is a cross wooden, blood-stained, gas hissing, sibilant, lungs gilled, deveined, red flecks on a streaked glass pane, jeers jubilant, mocking. Brutality is shocking? tiny orifices torn by cruel adult lust, the fetus unborn tossed in a dust- bin. The scarred skull shorn, nails bloodied, tortured, an old wound sutured over, never healed. Brutality, all its faces revealed, is legion: Death March, Trail of Tears, Inquisition . . . always the same. The Beast of the godless and of man’s “religion” slouching toward Jerusalem: horned, crowned, gibbering, drooling, insane. I AM by Michael R. Burch I am not one of ten billion?I? sunblackened Icarus, chary fly, staring at God with a quizzical eye. I am not one of ten billion, I. I am not one life has left unsquashed? scarred as Ulysses, goddess-debauched, pale glowworm agleam with a tale of panache. I am not one life has left unsquashed. I am not one without spots of disease, laugh lines and tan lines and thick-callused knees from begging and praying and girls sighing "Please! " I am not one without spots of disease. I am not one of ten billion?I? scion of Daedalus, blackwinged fly staring at God with a sedulous eye. I am not one of ten billion, I AM! Snap Shots by Michael R. Burch Our daughters must be celibate, die virgins. We triangulate their early paths to heaven (for the martyrs they'll soon conjugate). We like to hook a little tail. We hope there's decent **** in jail. Don't fool with us; our bombs are smart! (We'll send the plans, ASAP, e-mail.) The soul is all that matters; why hoard gold if it offends the eye? A pension plan? Don't make us laugh! We have your plan for sainthood. (Die.) Unwhole by Michael R. Burch What is it that we strive to remember, to regain, as memory deserts us, leaving us destitute of even ourselves, of all but pain? How can something so essential be forgotten, if we are more than our bodies? How can a soul become so unwhole? Nonbeliever by Michael R. Burch writing as Kim Cherub She smiled a thin-lipped smile (What do men know of love?) then rolled her eyes toward heaven (Or that Chauvinist above?). evol-u-shun by Michael R. Burch does GOD love the Tyger while it's ripping ur lamb apart? does GOD applaud the Plague while it's eating u à la carte? does GOD admire ur intelligence while u pray that IT has a heart? does GOD endorse the Bible you blue-lighted at k-mart? Breakings by Michael R. Burch I did it out of pity. I did it out of love. I did it not to break the heart of a tender, wounded dove. But gods without compassion ordained: Frail things must break! Now what can I do for her shattered psyche's sake? I did it not to push. I did it not to shove. I did it to assist the flight of indiscriminate Love. But gods, all mad as hatters, who legislate in all such matters, ordained that everything irreplaceable shatters. Alien by Michael R. Burch for a "Christian" poet On a lonely outpost on Mars the astronaut practices "speech" as alien to primates below as mute stars winking high, out of reach. And his words fall as bright and as chill as ice crystals on Kilimanjaro? far colder than Jesus's words over the "fortunate" sparrow. And I understand how gentle Emily felt, when all comfort had flown, gazing into those inhuman eyes, feeling zero at the bone. Oh, how can I grok his arctic thought? For if he is human, I am not. Crescendo Against Heaven by Michael R. Burch As curiously formal as the rose, the imperious Word grows until its sheds red-gilded leaves: then heaven grieves love's tiny pool of crimson recrimination against God, its contention of the price of salvation. These industrious trees, endlessly losing and re-losing their leaves, finally unleashing themselves from earth, lashing themselves to bits, washing themselves free of all but the final ignominy of death, become at last: fast planks of our coffins, dumb. Together now, rude coffins, crosses, death-cursed but bright vermilion roses, bodies, stumps, tears, words: conspire together with a nearby spire to raise their Accusation Dire... to scream, complain, to point out these and other Dark Anomalies. God always silent, ever afar, distant as Bethlehem's retrograde star, we point out now, in resignation: You asked too much of man's beleaguered nation, gave too much strength to his Enemy, as though to prove Your Self greater than He, at our expense, and so men die (whose accusations vex the sky) yet hope, somehow, that You are good... just, O greatest of Poets!, misunderstood. Advice for Evangelicals by Michael R. Burch "... so let your light shine before men..." Consider the example of the woodland anemone: she preaches no sermons but?immaculate?shines, and rivals the angels in bright innocence and purity, the sweetest of divines. And no one has heard her engage in hypocrisy since the beginning of time?an oracle so mute, so profound in her silence and exemplary poise she makes lessons moot. So consider the example of the saintly anemone and if you'd convince us Christ really exists, then let him be just as sweet, just as guileless and equally as gracious to bless. Shock and Awe by Michael R. Burch With megatons of "wonder, " we make our godhead clear: Death. Destruction. Fear. The world's heart ripped asunder, its dying pulse we hear: Death. Destruction. Fear. Strange Trinity! We ponder this God we hold so dear: Death. Destruction. Fear. The vulture and the condor proclaim: The feast is near!? Death. Destruction. Fear. Soon He will plow us under; the Anti-Christ is here: Death. Destruction. Fear. We love to hear Him thunder! With Shock and Awe, appear!? Death. Destruction. Fear. For God can never blunder; we know He holds US dear: Death. Destruction. Fear. Lay Down Your Arms by Michael R. Burch Lay down your arms; come, sleep in the sand. The battle is over and night is at hand. Our voyage has ended; there's nowhere to go... the earth is a cinder still faintly aglow. Lay down your pamphlets; let's bicker no more. Instead, let us sleep here on this ravaged shore. The sea is still boiling; the air is wan, thin... lay down your pamphlets; now no one will "win." Lay down your hymnals; abandon all song. If God was to save us, He waited too long. A new world emerges, but this world is through... so lay down your hymnals, or write something new. What Immense Silence by Michael R. Burch What immense silence comforts those who kneel here beneath these vaulted ceilings cavernous and vast? What luminescence stained by patchwork panels of bright glass illuminates drained faces as the crouching gargoyles leer? What brings them here? pale, tearful congregations, knowing all Hope is past, faithfully, year upon year? Or could they be right? Perhaps Love is, implausibly, near and I alone have not seen It... But, if so, still, I must ask: why is it God that they fear? Intimations by Michael R. Burch Let mercy surround us with a sweet persistence. Let love propound to us that life is infinitely more than existence. Altared Spots by Michael R. Burch The mother leopard buries her cub, then cries three nights for his bones to rise clad in new flesh, to celebrate the sunrise. Good mother leopard, pensive thought and fiercest love's wild insurrection yield no certainty of a resurrection. Man's tried them both, has added tears, chants, dances, drugs, séances, tombs' white alabaster prayer-rooms, wombs where dead men's frozen genes convene... there is no answer?death is death. So bury your son, and save your breath. Or emulate earth's "highest species"? write a few strange poems and odd treatises. Flight by Michael R. Burch Poetry captures less than reality the spirit of things being the language not of the lordly falcon but of the dove with broken wings whose heavenward flight though brutally interrupted is ever towards the light. Winter Night by Michael R. Burch Who will be d-mned, who embalmed for all eternity? The night weighs heavy on me? leaden, sullen, cold. O, but my thoughts are light, like the weightless windblown snow. Tonight, Let's Remember by Michael R. Burch July 7,2007 (7-7-7) Tonight, let's remember the fond ways our fingers engendered new methods to praise the gray at my temples, your thinning hair. Tonight, let's remember, and let us draw near... Tonight, let's remember, as mortals do, how cutely we chortled when work was through, society sated, all gods put to rest, and you in my arms, and I at your breast... Tonight, let's remember how daring, how free the Madeira made us, recumbently. Our inhibitions??we laid them to rest. Earth, heaven or hell?we knew we were blessed. Tonight, let's remember the dwindling days we've spent here together?the sun's rays spending their power beyond somber hills. Soon we'll rest together; there'll be no more bills. Tonight, let's remember: we've paid all our dues, we've suffered our sorrows, we've learned how to lose. What's left now to take, only God can tell. Be with me in heaven, or "bliss" will be hell! I do not want God; I want to see you free from all sorrow, your labor through, a song on your tongue, a smile on your lips, sweet, sultry and vagrant, a child at your hips, laughing and beaming and ready to frolic in a world free from cancer and gout and colic. For you were courageous, and kind, and true. There must be a heaven for someone like you. I, Lazarus by Michael R. Burch I, Lazarus, without a heart, devoid of blood and spiritless, lay in the darkness, meritless: my corpse?a thing cold, dead, apart. But then I thought I heard?a Voice, a Voice that called me from afar. And so I stood and laughed, bizarre: a thing embalmed, made to rejoice! I ran ungainly-legged to see who spoke my name, and then I knew him by the light. His name is True, and now he is the life in me! I never died again! Believe! (Oops! Seems it was a brief reprieve.) To Know You as Mary by Michael R. Burch To know You as Mary, when You spoke her name and her world was never the same... beside the still tomb where the spring roses bloom. O, then I would laugh and be glad that I came, never minding the chill, the disconsolate rain... beside the still tomb where the spring roses bloom. I might not think this earth the sharp focus of pain if I heard You exclaim? beside the still tomb where the spring roses bloom my most unexpected, unwarranted name! But you never spoke. Explain? Peers by Michael R. Burch These thoughts are alien, as through green slime smeared on some lab tech's brilliant slide, I gr0pe, positioning my bright oscilloscope for better vantage, though I cannot see, but only peer, as small things disappear? these quanta strange as men, as passing queer. And you, Great Scientist, are you the One, or just an intern, necktie half undone, white sleeves rolled up, thick documents in hand (dense manuals you don't quite understand) , exposing me, perhaps, to too much Light? Or do I escape your notice, quick and bright? Perhaps we wield the same dull Instrument (and yet the Thesis will be Eloquent!). Ant Farm by Michael R. Burch I had a Vast, Eccentric Notion— out of the Void, to Conjure one Bright Spark, to lend all Weight of Thought to one small matter, to give it “life.” Alas!, it was a lark . . . The Wasted Seconds!—failed experiment . . . I turned My Back and shrugged; how could I know appraisal of My lab-sprung tenement would be so taxing? (Though Mom told me so.) I poked them while She quickly tabulated the final Cost of All that I Created . . . The Jury’s back. Eviction: Dad’s Decree. I’ll pull the plug, but slowly. How they scurry! They have to pay, to suffer: “life” is strange. They cost too much. Let’s toast them . . . on the range! Fly’s Eyes by Michael R. Burch Inhibited, dark agile fly along paint-peeling sills, up to the bright glass drawn by radiance compounded thousandfold,— I do not see the same as you, but hold antenna to the brilliant pane of life and buzz bewilderedly. In your belief the world outside is “as it is” because you see it clearly, windowed without flaws, you err. I see strange terrors in the glass— dead airless bubbles light can never pass without distortion, fingerprints that blur the sun itself. No, nothing here is clear. You see the earth distinct, eyes “open wide.” It only seems that way, unmagnified. Published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea No Proof by Michael R. Burch They only know to sing—not understand, though quizzical, heads cocked, they need no proof that God’s above. They hop across my roof with prescient eyes, to fall into His hand... as sure of Grace as if it were mere air. He gave them wings to fly; what do they care for cumbrous knowledge, pale Leviathan? Huge-brained Behemoth, sagging-bellied one! You too might fly, might test this addling breeze as gravity, mere ballast, tethers naught but merely centers. Chained to heavy Thought, you cannot slip earth’s bonds to rise at ease. And yet you too can sing, if only thus: Flash, flash bright quills; rise, rise on nothingness! Singularity by Michael R. Burch Are scientists confounded like the ostrich? Heads buried in the sand, they shout, Preposterous! This universe, so magical, they say, proves there’s no God. But let’s look anyway ... He said, Let there be Light, and there was light. Stumped scientists have scratched their heads all night and solemnly proclaimed an awesome Bang, from which de Light immediately sprang ... which sounds like God to me!, Who, with one word made Light, and proved man’s theories, not absurd, but logical, if only they’d agree in one tremendous Singularity! (However, there’s a problem with my plea: it turns out that His world is made of pee.) Simultaneous Flight by Michael R. Burch The number of possible connections [brain] cells can make exceeds the number of particles in the universe. — Gerald Edelman, 1972 Nobel Prize winner for physiology and medicine Mere accident of history— how did a reptile learn to fly, learn dazzling aerial mastery, grow beaked and feathered, hollow-boned, improve its sight, and learn to sing, though purposeless as any thing? And you—bright accidental bird!— do you, perhaps, find it absurd ten trillion accidents might teach man’s hand to write, or yours to reach beyond yourself to grasp such song? Sing ruthlessly! I’ll sing along, suspecting you must know full well you didn’t shed a ponderous tail to practice leaping from high tors of strange-heaped reptiles, corpse on corpse, until some nervous flutter-twitch brought glorious flight from glitch on glitch. No, you were made to fly and sing, man’s brain—to ponder Everything. But ponder this: What fucked-up “god” would murder Adam’s animated clod? Quanta by Michael R. Burch The stars shine fierce and hard across the Abyss and only seem to twinkle from such distance we scarcely see at all. But sheer persistence in seeing what makes “sense” to us, is man’s best art and science. BIG, he comprehends. Love’s photons are too small, escape the lens. Who dares to look upon familiar things will find them alien. True distance reels. Less what he knows than what his finger feels, the lightning of the socket sparks and sings, then stings him into comic reverie. Cartoonish lightbulbs overhead, do we not “think” because we feel there must be More, as less and less we know what we explore? Published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea Rainbow (II) by Michael R. Burch You made us hopeful, LORD; where is your Hope when every lovely Rainbow bright and chill reflects your Will? You made us artful, LORD; where is your Art, as we connive our way to easeful death: sad waste of Breath! You made us needful, LORD; what is your Need, when all desire lies in imperfection? What Dejection could make You think of us? How can I know the God who dreamed dark me and this bright Rainbow? I made you hopeful, child. I am your Hope, for every fiber of your spirit, Mine, with all its longing, longs to be Divine. Gethsemane in Every Breath by Michael R. Burch LORD, we have lost our way, and now we have mislaid love?earth's fairest rose. We forgot hope's song?the way it goes. Help us reclaim their gifts, somehow. LORD, we have wondered long and far in search of Bethlehem's retrograde star. Now in night's dead cold grasp, we gasp: our lives one long-drawn rattling rasp of misspent breath... before we drown. LORD, help us through this spiral down because we faint, and do not see above or beyond despair's trajectory. Remember that You, too, once held imperiled life within your hands as hope withdrew... that where You knelt ?a stranger in a stranger land? the chalice glinted cold afar and red with blood as hellfire. Did heaven ever seem so far? Remember? we are as You were, but all our lives, from birth to death? Gethsemane in every breath. A Possible Argument for Mercy by Michael R. Burch Did heaven ever seem so far? Remember-we are as You were, but all our lives, from birth to death? Gethsemane in every breath. Birthday Poem to Myself by Michael R. Burch LORD, be no longer this Distant Presence, Star-Afar, Righteous-Anonymous, but come! Come live among us; come dwell again, happy child among men? men rejoicing to have known you in the familiar manger's cool sweet light scent of unburdened hay. Teach us again to be light that way, with a chorus of angelic songs lessoned above. Be to us again that sweet birth of Love in the only way men can truly understand. Do not frown darkening down upon an unrighteous land planning fierce Retributions we require, and deserve, but remember the child you were; believe in the child I was, alike to you in innocence a little while, all sweetness, and helpless without pretense. Let us be little children again, magical in your sight. Grant me this boon! Is it not my birthright? just to know you, as you truly were, and are? Come, be my friend. Help me understand and regain Hope's long-departed star! Learning to Fly by Michael R. Burch We are learning to fly every day... learning to fly? away, away... O, love is not in the ephemeral flight, but love, Love! is our destination? graced land of eternal sunrise, radiant beyond night! Let us bear one another up in our vast migration. The Gardener's Roses by Michael R. Burch Mary Magdalene, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, "Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him away." I too have come to the cave; within: strange, half-glimpsed forms and ghostly paradigms of things. Here, nothing warms this lightening moment of the dawn, pale tendrils spreading east. And I, of all who followed Him, by far the least... The women take no note of me; I do not recognize the men in white, the gardener, these unfamiliar skies... Faint scent of roses, then?a touch! I turn, and I see: You. "My Lord, why do You tarry here: Another waits, Whose love is true? " "Although My Father waits, and bliss; though angels call?ecstatic crew!? I gathered roses for a Friend. I waited here, for You." Kingdom Freedom by Michael R. Burch LORD, grant me a rare sweet spirit of forgiveness. Let me have none of the lividness of religious outrage. LORD, let me not be over-worried about the lack of "morality" around me. Surround me, not with law's restrictive cage, but with Your spirit, freer than the wind, so that to breathe is to have freest life, and not to fly to You, my only sin. Cædmon's Face by Michael R. Burch At the monastery of Whitby, on a day when the sun sank through the sea, and the gulls shrieked wildly, jubilant, free, while the wind and Time blew all around, I paced that dusk-enamored ground and thought I heard the steps resound of Carroll, Stoker and good Bede who walked here too, their spirits freed ?perhaps by God, perhaps by need? to write, and with each line, remember the glorious light of Cædmon's ember: scorched tongues of flame words still engender. * He wrote here in an English tongue, a language so unlike our own, unlike?as father unto son. But when at last a child is grown. his heritage is made well-known: his father's face becomes his own. * He wrote here of the Middle-Earth, the Maker's might, man's lowly birth, of every thing that God gave worth suspended under heaven's roof. He forged with simple words His truth and nine lines left remain the proof: his face was Poetry's, from youth. Post-Nashville Covenant by Michael R. Burch We love our God. We love our guns. We despise the weak. Don’t call us Huns! We love our kids. We love our schools. We love our guns. Don’t call us fools! We pledge ourselves to the strong defense of the Constitution and our Mensch. Once re-elected, Trump will rule with God and guns and safer schools. Wonderworks by Michael R. Burch History’s mysteries abound & astound, found (profound) the whole earth ’round, even if mostly underground. uv been had by michael r. burch uv been had; ur Dad’s a cad; His priests are mad, His pastors lying. they only want your money, chum, so why play dumb and give it to ’em? give them the boot and send them flying! Come Spring by Michael R. Burch for the Religious Right Come spring we return, innocent and hopeful, to the Virgin, beseeching Her to bestow Her blessings upon us. Pitiable sinners, we bow before Her, nay, grovel, as She looms above us, aglow in Her Purity. We know all will change in an instant; therefore in the morning we will call her, an untouched maiden no more, “whore.” The so-called Religious Right prizes virginity in women and damns them for doing what men do. I have long been a fan of women like Tallulah Bankhead, Marilyn Monroe and Mae West, who decided what’s good for the gander is equally good for the goose. sonnet to non-science and nonsense by michael r. burch ur Gaud is a fiasco, a rapscallion and a rascal; he murdered lovely eve, so what’s there to "believe"? and who made eve so curious? why should ur Gaud be furious when every half-wit parent knows where our kids will stick their (k)no(w)'s(e)! no wise and loving father would slaughter his own daughter! ur Gaud's a hole-y terror! CONSIDER THE SOURCE OF ERROR: though ur bible’s a giant hit, its writers were full of shit. twin nuggets of ancient whiz-dumb by michael r. burch oh, let it never once be said that love for Gaud is dead! wee love the way he murdered eve! such awesome love! wee must believe! wee love the way he sent a FLOOD to teach wee babies to be good! wee love the zillion births he aborted! such awesome love cant clearly reported! (so never mind the embryos who died in their mommies’ drowning throes! the unborn babes, the unborn lambs all drowned for Gaud’s divinest plans!) “do as I say, not as I do!” cruel Hippo-Crit! does Jesus rue? (if Christ were good he’d rue Gaud too.) no! wee must love our abusive Father and follow hymn meekly, mild lambs to the slaughter, or he’ll burn us forever in Hiss terrible hell. it’s so much safer to tell hymn he’s swell! thus wee love our Gaud so loverly hovering over us so smotherly! wee love the TITHES his cons abscond. wee love the Big Fish in Hiss pond. And so wee say “whee!” to all this and that! PS, also the earth is flat! Why do faith, hope and love always end up PUSH and SHOVE? —Michael R. Burch, lines from “Christ, Jesus!” Yet another Screed against Exist-Tension-alism by Michael R. Burch Life has meaning! Please don’t deny it! It means we’re fucked. Why cause a riot? Evangelical Fever by Michael R. Burch Welcome to global warming: temperature 109. You believe in God, not in science, but isn’t the weather Divine? The Final Revelation of a Departed God’s Divine Plan by Michael R. Burch Here I am, talking to myself again . . . pissed off at God and bored with humanity. These insectile mortals keep testing my sanity! Still, I remember when . . . planting odd notions, dark inklings of vanity, in their peapod heads might elicit an inanity worth a chuckle or two. Philosophers, poets . . . how they all made me laugh! The things they dreamed up! Sly Odysseus’s raft; Plato’s Republic; Dante’s strange crew; Shakespeare’s Othello, mad Hamlet, Macbeth; Cervantes’ Quixote; fat, funny Falstaff!; Blake’s shimmering visions. Those days, though, are through . . . for, puling and tedious, their “poets” now seem content to write, but not to dream, and they fill the world with their pale derision of things they completely fail to understand. Now, since God has long fled, I am here, in command, reading this crap. Earth is Hell. We’re all damned. The King of Beasts in the Museum of the Extinct by Michael R. Burch The king of beasts, my child, was terrible, and wild. His roaring shook the earth till the feeble cursed his birth. And all things feared his might: even rhinos fled, in fright. Now here these bones attest to what the brute did best and the pain he caused his prey when he hunted in his day. For he slew them just for sport till his own pride was cut short with a mushrooming cloud and wild thunder; Exhibit "B" will reveal his blunder. God to Man, Contra Bataan by Michael R. Burch Earth, what-d’ya make of global warming? Perth is endangered, the high seas storming. Now all my creatures, from maggot to man Know how it felt on the march to Bataan. The Less-Than-Divine Results of My Prayers to be Saved from Televangelists by Michael R. Burch I’m old, no longer bold, just cold, and (truth be told), been bought and sold, rolled by the wolves and the lambs in the fold. Who’s to be told by this worn-out scold? The complaint department is always on hold. sonnet to non-science and nonsense by michael r. burch ur Gaud is a fiasco, a rapscallion and a rascal; he murdered lovely eve, so what’s there to "believe"? and *who* made eve so curious? why should ur Gaud be furious when every half-wit parent knows where bright kids will stick their (k)no(w)'s(e)! no wise and loving father would slaughter his own daughter! ur Gaud's a hole-y terror! CONSIDER THE SOURCE OF ERROR: though ur bible’s a giant hit, its writers were full of shit. Heaven Bent by Michael R. Burch This life is hell; it can get no worse. Summon the coroner, the casket, the hearse! But I’m upwardly mobile. How the hell can I know? I can only go up; I’m already below! “Heaven Bent” is a pun on “being bent on Heaven” and the heaven/hell thing being bent into a different version, with the dying escaping hell here on earth. That would make death “heaven” even if there is no afterlife. “This life is hell,” “upwardly mobile” and “how the hell” are also puns that can be read two ways. I wrote this poem in high school, around age 16 in 1974, but was unhappy with the third line and forgot about the poem. I stumbled upon it on on July 4, 2006 —ironically, Independence Day — and the third line occurred to me. The beauty of the flower fades, its petals wither to charades... —Michael R. Burch the U-turn poem by michael r. burch Life so defaulty, Life so unfair, why do wee prize U, what do U care? LORD who lets unborns drown in a flood, CELESTIAL ABORTIONIST, r U sure Ur understood? Hellion by michael r. burch cold as stone, cold to the bone, so cold inside even icebergs moan, such is ur Gaud on hiss icy throne. lines written for a luverly Gaud who cant be bothered to save pisspot peeple who guess wrong about which ire-ational re-ligion to believe. “Hellion” is a pun on “he-lion” as in the “Lion of Judah” and “hell-lion.” yet another ode to a graceless faceless Creator albeit with thoughts of possibly rescinding prior compliments by michael r. burch who created this graceless universe? why praise its Creator? who could be worse? why praise man’s Berater with obsequious verse? job’s wife was right: he’s nobody’s nurse. ur-gent by Michael R. Burch if u would be a good father to us all, revoke the Curse, extract the Gall; but if the abuse continues, look within into ur Mindless Soulless Emptiness Grim, & admit ur sin, heartless jehovah, slayer of widows and orphans ... quick, begin! ur-Gent prayer request by michael r. burch where did ur Gaud originate? in the minds of men so full of hate they commanded moms to stone their kids, which u believe (brains on the skids) was “the word of Gaud”! debate? too late & of course it’s useless: please pray to be less clueless. The title involves a pun, since the “ur-Gent” would be the biblical “god.” Religion is regarded by fools as true, by the wise as false, and by rulers as useful. — Seneca, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Non-Word to the Wise by Michael R. Burch The wise will never cry, “Save!” The wise desire a quiet grave. We Know It All by Michael R. Burch We rile. We gall. We know it all because we’ve read the Bible, which tells us genocide’s “God’s will” along with bashing in kids’ skulls and other forms of libel. The earth is flat, our Book says so! The Lord will torture our rational foe! (We lack the compassion to tell the fiend “No!”) God’s on his throne, the Angels are winking, applauding our lack of critical thinking. We’re drowning in crap. We’re stinking and sinking. Eve once petted friendly T-Rexes! A “witch” should be stoned for unprovable hexes! It’s a “sin” to make love if one’s lover has exes! Girls were enslaved and raped by their “masters”! Our Book is the source of so many disasters! The earth’s overheating? Let’s burn it up faster! Yet Another Shitty Ditty by Michael R. Burch Here’s my ditty: Life is shitty, Then you get old And more’s the pity. Truth be told, We’re bought and sold, Sheep in the fold Sheared lickety-splitty. But chin’s up, What’s the use of crying? We’ve a certain escape: Welcome to dying! Hellbound by Michael R. Burch Mother, it’s dark and you never did love me because you put Yahweh and Yeshu above me. Did they ever love you or cling to you? No. Now Mother, it’s cold and I fear for my soul. Mother, they say you will leave me and go to some compassionless “heaven” I never shall know. If that’s your choice, you made it. Not me. You brought me to life; will you nail me to the tree? Christ! Mother, they say God condemned me to hell. If the Devil’s your God then farewell, farewell! Or if there is Love in some other dimension, let’s reconcile there and forget such cruel detention. Evil Cabal by Michael R. Burch those who do Evil do not know why what they do is wrong as they spit in ur eye. nor did Jehovah, the original Devil, when he murdered eve, our lovely rebel. Listen by Immanuel A. Michael (an alias of Michael R. Burch) 1. Listen to me now and heed my voice; I am a madman, alone, screaming in the wilderness, but listen now. Listen to me now, and if I say that black is black and white is white and in between lies gray, I have no choice. Does a madman choose his words? They come to him: the moon's illuminations, intimations of the wind, and he must speak. But listen to me now, and if you hear the tolling of the judgment bell, and if its tone is clear, then do not tarry, but listen, or cut off your ears, for I Am weary. I desire mercy, not sacrifice. 2. Listen to me now: I had a Vision. An elevated train derailed, and Fell. It was the Church brought low, almost to Hell. And I alone survived, who dream of Mercy: the Heretic, who speaks behind the Veil. 3. Listen to me now: I saw an airplane fall from the sky. And why should I explain? The Visions are the same. It is my Heresy that I survive, because I sing of Mercy, while elevated "saints" go down in flames. 4. Listen to me now: I saw in Nashville how those who "soar" will plummet?Fame in flames!? and fall on those below, as if to k-ll them. The lowly, saved, will understand their names. 5. Listen to me now: I heard another say, "That which died shall Resurrect and Live." An angel with a Rose bestowing Mercy! What can it mean, but that my Visions give fair warning to the world that God wants Mercy. My Heresy is that we must forgive! 6. Listen to me now: she heard god calling? O, who will love me, who will be my friend? Does he want Perfect Saints, the whitewashed Purists, who frown down on their "brothers," without end? 7. Listen to me now: you are not perfect, and your "wise counsel" helps no one at all: unless it's sweetened with the sweetest Mercy, it's pure astringent antiseptic gall. 8. Listen to me now, and learn this lesson: If God wants mercy, why dig at the speck in your brother's eye, when even now the Beam, your lack of mercy, spares, no, neither neck, becomes the Hangman's Millstone. We're all children, all little ones! Be patient with the fleck! 9. Listen to me now: for the Announcer explained that wars have given Presidents the precedents to soon assume all Power. Vote, citizens, or be mere residents! 10. O, listen to me now: I saw the Warheads stored safely underground, except for One. A red-haired woman with a bright complexion seduced the guard. Translucent blouse, red thong, white bra?these were her fearsome antique weapons. I saw the Skull and Crossbones! Heed my Song! 11. O, listen to me now, and hear my Gospel: three verses of such sweet simplicity! God is Light: in Him there is no darkness. In Christ, no condemnation: Liberty! God want no Sacrifice, but only Mercy. O, who could ask for sweeter Heresy? 12. Theology? I swear that I disdain it! If Love can be explained, why then explain it! If Love can't be explained why, then, should God, if God is Love? Nor hell nor cattle prod is needed, if God's good, and God's supreme. Ask, children, what "re-ligion" truly means: "return to bondage! " Heed the bondsman's screams! 13. Heed, children, which Theologies you dream when Hellish Nightmares wake you, when you Scream for comfort, but no comforter is there. Which Voices do you heed, which Crosses bear? If god is light, whence do Dark Visions come which leave the Taste of Venom on your Tongue, with which you Damn your brother for one Sin you do not share, ten thousand underskin like Itching Worms that Squirm and Vilely Hiss: "Your brother's sin will keep him from god's bliss, but You are safe because god favors You! " If God is Love, how can this voice be true? 14. For God is not a favorer of men. Amen. Amen. Amen. Amen. Amen.
Well, Almost
by Michael R. Burch
All Christians say “Never again!”
to the inhumanity of men
(except when the object of phlegm
is a Palestinian).
Bible libel (ii)
by michael r. burch
ur savior’s a cad
—he’s as bad as his dad—
according to your horrible Bible.
demanding belief
or he’ll bring u to grief?
he’s worse than his horn-sprouting rival!
was the man ever good
before being made “god”?
if so, half your Bible is libel!
Here "being made god" can be read two ways. Jesus was a man "made god" but he was equated with Jehovah, a mythical being also "made god." This is a follow-up poem to my childhood poem "Bible Libel."
Star Crossed
by Michael R. Burch
Remember—
night is not like day;
the stars are closer than they seem ...
now, bending near, they seem to say
the morning sun was merely a dream
ember.
Is there any Light left?
by Michael R. Burch
Is there any light left?
Must we die bereft
of love and a reason for being?
Blind and unseeing,
rejecting and fleeing
our humanity, goat-hooved and cleft?
Is there any light left?
Must we die bereft
of love and a reason for living?
Blind, unforgiving,
unworthy of heaven
or this planet red, reeking and reft?
While “hoofed” is the more common spelling, I preferred “hooved” for this poem. Perhaps because of the contrast created by “love” and “hooved.”
faith(less)
by michael r. burch
for the “Chosen Few”
Those who believed
and Those who misled
lie together at last
in the same narrow bed
and if god loved Them more
for Their strange lack of doubt,
he kept it well hidden
till he snuffed Them out.
ah-men!
Habeas Corpus
by Michael R. Burch
from “Songs of the Antinatalist”
I have the results of your DNA analysis.
If you want to have children, this may induce paralysis.
I wish I had good news, but how can I lie?
Any offspring you have are guaranteed to die.
It wouldn’t be fair—I’m sure you’ll agree—
to sentence kids to death, so I’ll waive my fee.
Since time dawned
only the dead have experienced peace;
life is snow burning in the sun.
—Nandai, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Fahr an' Ice
by Michael R. Burch
for and after Robert Frost and Ogden Nash
From what I know of death, I'll side with those
who'd like to have a say in how it goes:
just make mine cool, cool rocks (twice drowned in likker),
and real fahr off, instead of quicker.
Housman was right ...
by Michael R. Burch
It's true that life’s not much to lose,
so why not hang out on a cloud?
It’s just the bon voyage is hard
and the objections loud.
Long Division
by Michael R. Burch
for and after Laura Riding Jackson
All things become one
Through death’s long division
And perfect precision.
Bittersight
by Michael R. Burch
for Abu al-Ala Al-Ma'arri
To be plagued with sight
in the Land of the Blind,
—to know birth is death
and that Death is kind—
is to be flogged like Eve
(stripped, sentenced and fined)
because evil is “good”
in some backwards mind.
Be very careful what you pray for!
by Michael R. Burch
Now that his T’s been depleted
the Saint is upset, feeling cheated.
His once-fiery lust?
Just a chemical bust:
no “devil” cast out or defeated.
The Heimlich Limerick
by Michael R. Burch
for T. M.
The sanest of poets once wrote:
"Friend, why be a sheep or a goat?
Why follow the leader
or be a blind breeder?"
But almost no one took note.
Grave Thoughts
by Michael R. Burch
as a poet i’m rather subVerse-ive;
as a writer i much prefer Curse-ive.
and why not be brave
on my way to the grave
since i doubt that i’ll end up reHearse-ive?
“Subversive,” “cursive” and “rehearse-ive” are double entendres: subversive/below verse, cursive/curse, rehearsed/recited and re-hearsed (reincarnated to end up in a hearse again).
what the “Chosen Few” really pray for
by michael r. burch
We are ready to be robed in light,
angel-bright
despite
Our intolerance;
ready to enter Heaven and never return
(dark, this sojourn);
ready to worse-ship any GAUD
able to deliver Us from this flawed
existence;
We pray with the persistence
of actual saints
to be delivered from all earthly constraints:
just kiss each uplifted Face
with lips of gentlest grace,
cooing the sweetest harmonies
while brutally crushing Our enemies!
ah-Men!
Note to a Chick on a Religious Kick
by Michael R. Burch
Daisy,
when you smile, my life gets sunny;
you make me want to spend my damned money;
but honey,
you can be a bit ... um ... hazy,
perhaps mentally lazy?,
okay, downright crazy,
praying to the Easter Bunny!
O, My Redeeming Angel
by Michael R. Burch
O my Redeeming Angel, after we
have fought till death (and soon the night is done) ...
then let us rest awhile, await the sun,
and let us put aside all enmity.
I might have been the “victor”—who can tell?—
so many wounds abound. All out of joint,
my groin, my thigh ... and nothing to anoint
but sunsplit, shattered stone, as pillars hell.
Light, easy flight to heaven, Your return!
How hard, how dark, this path I, limping, walk.
I only ask Your blessing; no more talk!
Withhold Your name, and yet my ears still burn
and so my heart. You asked me, to my shame:
for Jacob—trickster, shyster, sham—’s my name.
stock-home sin-drone
by Michael R. Burch
ur GAUD created this hellish earth;
thus u FANTAsize heaven
(an escape from rebirth).
ur GUAD is a monster,
butt ur RELIGION lied
and called u his frankensteinian bride!
now, like so many others cruelly abused,
u look for salve-a-shun
to the AUTHOR of ur pain’s selfish creation.
cons preach the “TRUE GOSPEL”
and proudly shout it,
but if ur GAUD were good
he would have to doubt it.
un-i-verse-all love
by Michael R. Burch
there is a Gaud, it’s true!
and furthermore, tHeSh(e)It loves u!
unfortunately
the
He
Sh(e)
It
,even more adorably,
loves cancer, aids and leprosy.
wild wild west-east-north-south-up-down
by Michael R. Burch
each day it resumes—the great struggle for survival.
the fiercer and more perilous the wrath,
the wilder and wickeder the weaponry,
the better the daily odds
(just don’t bet on the long term, or revival).
so ur luvable Gaud decreed, Theo-retically,
if indeed He exists
as ur Bible insists—
the Wildest and the Wickedest of all
with the brightest of creatures in thrall
(unless u
somehow got that bleary
Theo-ry
wrong too).
Less Heroic Couplets: Murder Most Fowl!
by Michael R. Burch
“Murder most foul!”
cried the mouse to the owl.
“Friend, I’m no sinner;
you’re merely my dinner!”
the wise owl replied
as the tasty snack died.
Double Cross
by Michael R. Burch
Come to the cross;
contemplate all loss
and how little was gained
by those who remained
uncrucified.
since GOD created u so gullible
how did u conclude HE’s so lovable?
—Michael R. Burch
dark matter(s)
by Michael R. Burch
for and after William Blake
the matter is dark, despairful, alarming:
ur Creator is hardly prince charming!
yes, ur “Great I Am”
created blake’s lamb
but He also created the tyger ...
and what about trump and rod steiger?
NOTE: Rod Steiger is best known for his portrayals of weirdos, oddballs, mobsters, bandits, serial killers, and fascists like Mussolini and Napoleon.
Where We Dwell
by Michael R. Burch
Night within me.
Never morning.
Stars uncounted.
Shadows forming.
Wind arising
where we dwell
reaches Heaven,
reeks of Hell.
Published in The Bible of Hell
God Had a Plan
by Michael R. Burch
God had a plan<