There are two kinds of terror within us—
our biology and humanity
(I got this idea from Prometheus)—

without the human element to tie
our lives to some fictitious narrative
we are simply a huge community

of grasping cells, the blind, devouring drive
to mindlessly go forth and multiply.
Though these pale next to the alternative

the face that’s never skewed nor elderly,
far worse than sharp mouthed leeches in the the sod,
humanity minus biology,

not undead or unliving. Call it God.



I’ve no problem with all that Argie Bargie,
the Thames clogged up with waving Monarchy,
let’s wave our flags, salute her Majesty

and let those inbred toffs float out to sea,
to meet her new subjects, some crabs and cod,
and as the waves grow higher, we will see

if, like the song says, she’ll get saved by God.

Canto CCLX

I have to field the question now and then—
when’s the date for baby’s christening—
I tell them she can choose her religion

when she is old enough, that I will bring
all of the world’s faiths to her attention.
Of course I hope she will choose no such thing

and make do with this life. If the command
to have no other god save for Yahweh
elicits worship from her adult mind,

I will not wave some Dawkins at her face,
although I reckon knowledge is enough
to keep the fear of any hell at bay,

the manifest versions of Pascal’s Bluff.


Let me get this straight, back in the day
all people spoke the same language and built
a tower that reached up into the sky,

so God, that almighty buzz kill,
swiped it down like stacks of building blocks,
as omnipotent toddlers often will,

then, to stop any towers springing back,
he fractured language into many tongues
so that all building plans woud come unstuck.

Yet, prodding at the risen midday sun,
The Shard is almost completed despite
the builders from the fragmented nations,

They’re bang on schedule, on the job despite
their hotchpotch speil of Shona and Polish.
Their lunch hour cries of “Kurva!” “Dambe!” “Shit!”

are loud enough to make the wide sky blush.

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