Condemned to repeat the same psalms
obscure
deliriums of distant men.
Their hunger, not ours.
Their tongue, grotto of ours.
Their dead…
I come to break your faces,
wretched pastors.
From my sword the verse will fall
shattered, scattered across your desert,
indifferent amid the sand
as one more grain of sand.
Keep your sordid interiority,
that dry legume turned into pageantry,
fodder for the dunes —
eat it, as in your rituals,
down to the last morsel.
We want no
corpse afloat in our fountains.
Look at your work:
make no mistake — it does not endure, nothing does.
Your chalices are the hands of a thirsty man.
Look at the empty sockets in the landscape —
the gluttony of your souls
is the chastity that has laid it waste.
Let me, you pharisaic mules, give
new fertility to the barren plain
of your psalms.
My seed is acid to your tongues.
My word, a new sun.
We Are Wellspring, p. 26