All the peoples of the land shall
worship graven images of Most
High, without a solitary boast,
forsaking not god and his hall,
though he abandon us; cobalt
sky furies and stifling, freelance tombs,
screaming in the stillness of locked rooms,
and the searing whisper of salt,
to the dry mouth desert gunfire,
the clanging weaponry of his war,
to the artifice of bedroom floors,
the steepness of lonely desire.
Fill his ears with drug-fertile hymns
blossoming from your virginal tongues,
and branching up from your holy lungs,
fill goblets with song to the brims!
Dance naked, orgy in the streets,
show him all your salacious vigor,
shower alcoholics with liquor;
god is delighted by such feats!
Until you die, or he returns,
these will be your entreaties and acts:
gifting the rich with grisly abstracts,
and the homeless with diamond urns.
“Come quickly, regal King of Kings!”
You’ll violate your cities until
he comes back for you and to his hill.
Await what ancient glory brings!