Sermon from the Priest Of Crows' Beady Eyed Pulpit

 

This is... Sermon from the Priest Of Crows' Beady Eyed Pulpit

Come and suffer.

Come where there is no lyrical dealing in faith.

Come where there is no offering of uplifting hope.

Come where there is no lesson, no matter you need to be taught.

Come where there you are seen: glorious and tragic.

 

The beady eye from the pulpit sees you: tied to the stake.

When ideologue flames meet you, let them know you'd rather burn through

Crucifixions, auto-eroticisms.

Only you can ever be you.

Wherever you are travelled.

You're going to get travelsick.

 

The beady eye from the pulpit watches you: message in a sea-glass.

Wishing letters could be bottled up, tossed into colourless tumult.

But the current always pushes back to shore.

Only you can ever contain you.

Always near sinking below

horizon's sight.

 

The beady eye from the pulpit views you: beautiful as liminal space.

Sighs emptiness between words not more than uttered.

Lovers, saucer-eyed, under the same moon phase in a countryside

A mass of land between.

Raspings of the rushes

A reminder of the distance.

 

The beady eye from the pulpit recognises you: duality of man.

Uncanny out of body sensation: the feeling of magic before you knew the trick of it,

yet present as steel between a hammer and an anvil.

Only you can ever be you.

On instamatic film: it was once all real.

Layers of flesh, Ruby gemstone, bone-shells, crushed hormonal states of mind.

 

The beady eye from the pulpit waters for you: demigod.

Mankind worships only what it sees itself in.

Acts for a purpose it can't say what it believes in.

In the atomic light a steady beady eye can make out self-destruction.

Even on Sundays meant for heads to shake at sin in.

 

The beady eye from the pulpit stares at you: wild with your bounty.

Foaming and dissolving clouds, texture of time.

All the while taking liberties with your crops and berries,

You are taking up the prognosis with the doctor at the bedside.

Discussing costs of being turned on by pump and valve machine.

Eating warm peaches out the bowl.

 

The beady eye from the pulpit sees you: as you intended.

In pursuit of relativity: mixture of passion and vulnerability.

Existing to push molecules around. 

Only you can ever move you.

A beautiful curiosity; Flowering like a galaxy.

A spectrum of consequence in fuck-up-ability.