I wake in the night
Cold with a panic.
Suppose there is a God.
If all the reason of my life
Should crumble away
.
Which God?
The one whose will it was to
Maim and hang on two crossed sticks
His only begotten son?
In excalpation for a sin
So carefully engineered
In that garden long ago?
The slaughterer of Egyptian children?
The tormentor of Job?
The emperor of Japan?
Suppose it is a jaguar headed toad,
Exalted by a lost Amazon tribe,
That requires the presentation
Of still beating human
hearts at a forest shrine?
If she should drop in,
Passing by, on her
way to Armageddon,
Would she thank her
Paedophile priests
For their sacrifices of innocence?
If he’s a grinning fat boy
Would he be even more amused
By the rape and murder in Myanmar?
If God lives
There will be no justice for
The virtuous unbeliever.
I wake awash in sweat.
The god of ‘love’, who
Looked down with (presumably)
smiling benevolence
On Ruanga and the agony of the Cathars,
Will judge my soul.
If we are made in his image
Wouldn’t a better job be being done,
Floating here in the cloud
Of all possible universes?
Is that the sound of thunder
Or the approaching feet
Of some huge vengeful toddler
Clutching a quiver of lightenings?
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