eviction note to the squatting evangelist

artists, Daisy Lafarge

Daisy Lafarge

today I woke
to find you squatting in my mouth again

so I shut you in, for fear
you’d come pouring out:

(at times I must be
a tactical mute)

your seven holy tongues aflame
with all the ignorant harmonies of praise

giddily drunk-driving
the leveller you call ‘grace’

what is pain but deficiency? you burp,
gleefully stapling a book to my head

I had to freeze my body too, in case
you started to sway through me;

sashayed by the Spirit, your varicose hands
raised, lids-half glued in sham ecstasy. You are far off,

else-time, filling your bed with God,
and demons to keep Him jealous

Meanwhile, we scratch on in your upended pouch,
but self-archaeology in the mud tracks

is like picking out the choicest bits of sick, while
our unwatered needs roar like Gog and Magog

Most days, I try and drown you out,
with frequencies of the hopeful, meantime world


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