by Ilving Tabios-Zamora
Sir God:
Pour me a drink of wine. Sprinkle it with honey.
I want to sing.
I love wine when it is flower-sweet.
It drums the chest. Like lonely darkness
it fulfills all the hankerings of the flesh.
Sir God:
Pour me another drink. Squeeze bile into it.
I want to cry.
I love it more when wine is bitter.
It makes you sick yet well. You throw up
all the pains of the heart.
Sir God:
Pour me one more. And one more. Then just one more.
Blend it with dog's blood. I want to shout.
There is magic in wine. It makes you cool.
It gives you bones. You taunt everyone --
all the powers-that-be and even the ghosts.
Just pour everything out of the barrel, will you?
Come, let us talk. Why did you rid Alodia of me?
I work in mysterious ways...
Why have you forsaken the poor?
Blessed are the poor for they shall inherit the world...
Why do you tolerate the oppressors?
Render unto Caesar what is due Caesar . . .
Come on, cut the parable bullshit!
Why don't you listen to the prayers of the people?
Open your eyes. Q-tip your ears. Tune your brain.
Stop feigning deaf, dumb, blind and mute.
Goddamn you God, what kind of God are you?
Hey, where's my drink? Shit, you are a sorry slowpoke.
Where the hell are you? Dog gone you!
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