Its hard to explain what we do.
Tell me about your false idols:
Your father, run off and clarified.
Your earth god, harmless, impotent and benign.
Your lover, a furtive catalogue of desires and fading ecstasies.
Tell me of the power that pulls at your roots and wings and I will reply:
Zeus is a servant to thunder, and Kali a servant of death,
and Christ, a servant to the cursed tree.
The idol bull, washed and combed in warm milk and perfume,
waited upon by vestal oracles unblemished and beautiful --
that God of spring is a servant to, if not the sword, then the manure pile.
Tell me and I will ask, "Who serves you and where is the blood?"
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