Friday, 12 January 2018

The voices of God

The lilting hiss of the curate’s kiss
along his words of wisdom;
God only knows why they talk like this
when proclaim the keys to The Kingdom.

A two and six postal order
and a tuppenny stamp, please,
hushes the vicar to the counter.
The football pools, he decides upon his knees,
and bets the numbered hymns in order, 
with a promise that “just four little aways?”
would win his eternal praise, 
curate to creator.

Such a gentle voice, a hand upon your shoulder,
but so out of place in the supermarket isle,
that we all say “off his trolley he is”,
slightly mouldier than a Stilton smile;
because, now that life is so puerile,
that chip upon his shoulder
has turned into a boulder.

For God’s sake man!
Talk like a human being. 
It cuts no ice, when you talk so nice,
you’ll never send the money lenders reeling.

Talk to me, talk to me,
for God’s sake talk to me;
not in condescension;
but scream and shout, 
spit it out, sputter in the tears of Christ,
and reflect upon their condensation.

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