Ant Smith
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Poetry

The Word of God

Got no messiahs
Om my mind,
No prophets predicting
The flow of time,
No father, Son, nor Holy Ghost
Got no sacrificial goat.

Words are made by
The noises we utter
From each to each
And each to the other
And others are made
By the touch of a lover
And lovers are made
In the sibilant whisper
Of words that twist and slip
And slither.

Got no miracles
Down my street
No forbidden apples
Fall at my feet
No Adam & Eve, nor Cain & Able
No parables, hymns, nor fables.

Words are stated visions, given
Life by air we breath
Be they first, or be they last,
theyre
Nothing but our dreams

You can grab em
You can pack em
You can wrap em
You can have em
You can need em
You can heed em
You can take em
You can leave em

Got no kingdom come
To go to
No subway ticket
To Hells inferno,
No paradise to reward the strife
No Virgin-Mary-Bloody-Wife

And dreams do not become
Reality
On the wings of some great
Prayer,
For prayers are nought but
Visions stated in the stale and
Stagnant
Air, that is words.

You can grab em
You can pack em
You can wrap em
You can have em
You can need em
You can heed em
You can take em
You can leave em

You can lose em
You can smooth em
You can move em
You can groove em
You can pick em
You can clip em
You can miss em
You can hiss em

You can hug em
You can love em
You can suck em
You can

Got no herein-therafter
Got no earthly-holy father
No touch of god, nor sense of sin
Just this space, that I stand in,
And Here I stand, or here I fall,
And That is that for
that is all.


Poetry