Don’t accept that dispensationalist god!
Write your own texts for living this life
To divide & combine them as you will
Nothing fixed can hold the fluid truth
Don’t worry about the origins of all this
Improvisation from pus & blood most
likely
Insubstantial as memories – look now!
Count the mourners, not the dead
That jewelled head of mystery
Was set up to blind & mock us
Here, rather love its surface shine
Seen in clarity let it tell
Your energy will stare right at your heart
Its pulse, its wounded pulse, will not falter
yet
But push your life around your body still
No one owns nor has made you but ourselves
Each day’s scratched writings are true
As the whole round sky and sea &
rainclouds
Spurting blood on our dear world of rubbish
Life brought to us in the ashes of stars
At this chapel (& yes, good people can
come here)
We ate bread & cake, drunk wine outside
And a gust of power & insubstantial
memory
Told us how life & new life can blow in
You choose your truth, tried, because
This whole world is hard but there isn’t
another
And there isn’t a set of rules or a plan
decreed
Just picking it up together carrying on
These are desperate times, & true, this
Looks just like another life in dreams &
empty language
Drinking milk & being innocent won’t save
us
But we can now pause & think to reharness
power
Not through hard & discrete words but
writing
This sort of mush or mess, a scary mask that
Is what we are made of, & will resist
The simple lies that block our mouth &
eyes
Somehowness, ah, that’s a good word & a
strange one
Its power of apparent unrelatedness can
Intervene in mind, memory & world &
we
Can see & work that something we have in
common
that
joint free enterprise
that’s all
our business now 
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