Prophet

He walks in, wearing his immaculate smile
Tall and stiff with authority
Larger than life
His wives are tattered butterflies
Pinned to his lapel
And trailing behind
His quorum of misogynistic madmen
With yes-shaped mouths
Shrieking out their higher laws
Thou shalt not think
Thou shalt not speak
Thou shalt not touch.
Their eyes are black malice
As they flog us with scripture.

Listen as he passes
God is jingling in his pocket
And see how he inclines his head?
That's the Holy Ghost whispering in his ear.
"Cut them down," it says. "Cut them down."
He leans into the pulpit
And utters in a clear, caressing voice
His doctrines of exclusion and despair.

The congregation stands, swaying
The zealots version of the sports fan wave
Hip, hip... obey...
The men are faint specters
Too empty to regret their bad investment,
Their women, mere wombs
Swelling with sons and daughters
Destined to be devoured
By his ravenous revelations.
Desperate they cling for consolation
To visions of glories to come.

The day I tumbled off the altar
He took his twisted key and locked the gate.
When I had gathered up the pieces
That were left of me
And scooped my mangled heart
Up off the floor
I laughed at last
And blithely turned
To skip my way to hell.