Dirge in the Undead God

The undead Creator writhes and lurches,

God of all but unsung in churches;

Entombed in vacuum its limbs decay,

Flesh the stuff of the Milky Way;

Commanded by moans the cosmos unfurls,

Drooling worlds in Fibonacci swirls;

Unaware, its galactic muscles flex,

Black maws swallowing its Hydra-like necks;

Chambers of its sprawling heart, the stars

Send life-blood to the god’s avatars

The pawns of Earth, proud and impious,

Deem themselves divine, ticks in God’s carcass;

Before their eyes the lifeless body moves:

Stars shine, wind blows and rain falls, which proves

That nature’s God, no spirit required,

The monstrous plenum from the first expired

The Creator evolved a head, the Earth,

Yet the minds thereon are tasked not to birth

Whole worlds but to behold the rotting face,

Tattered wings, shattered carapace.

Could a noble soul be found confined

To carrion or mustn’t that soul be resigned

To horror and folly, as a senile old man

Dines on the dung in his foul bedpan?

Or as a mad fish, loathing the sea,

Flops on land, comically free?

Come meet the blessed mortal heroes--

Gallant in squaring off against their foes?

Saintly with worry for another’s pain?

More likely competing for private gain;

Not--as boasted--Lords of Nature

But vicious beasts without the fur,

Fucking in secret, ashamed of their stripes,

Jealous plumbers groping for others’ pipes

Traces of the Dragon’s alien form

From ghostly flights of the quantum swarm--

Arcana named only in wizards’ scrolls--

To a map of dramatic social roles;

Enter alpha, beta, omega males

And history hidden by fairy-tales;

Alphas lead by preying on the weak,

Feminized betas follow while the bleak

Truth is glimpsed by omega drop-outs,

By anxious mystics brought low by doubts,

All concealed by elaborate dances,

White lies, puffery and PC trances

See now stage left for their shared cameo

As nebulas nursing newborn stars glow,

As worlds in the multiverse like flowers grow,

As those carrying God’s coffin know woe:

Libs and cons squabble for show

Each bowing before the chief beasts

Serving up the oligarchs’ grotesque feasts;

Libs trust in the quaint modern myth

Of Reason, Freedom and our precious pith;

Reduced to bean counters and sad cuckolds

As the postmodern wasteland unfolds,

They condescend with pragmatic nods;

Cons con shamelessly with myths of old gods,

With tales of Yahweh counting your head’s hairs

Or Allah demanding you kneel on carpet squares

While the truer gods rule from skyscrapers,

Wasting their wealth but praised for their capers,

Luxuriating on a golden toilet

While hordes of dupes languish in debt,

Punished for the plutocrat’s insane bet;

Fun and games next to the existential threat

Of worlds falling as beads of living-dead sweat

Hear then the song of the truth-blasted seer!

No warning or call to action but a rave,

An ironic prayer to God’s decaying ear,

A rattling of chains binding cosmos and slave,

A peeling of soporific veneer;

Flames flicker dimly in our abode, the Cave

But they’re beamed from the suns themselves, I fear,

And we poor witnesses live in our grave;

Flesh leaps and struts as a mobile bier--

But laugh at the honour of being lodged in God’s rear