a random poem i wrote a while ago about my favorite book
The Common
“I hate you, God. I hate you as though you existed.”--Graham Green The End of the Affair
Clapham Common, the sandwich shape of grassland,
a trinity of park ends: Battersea,
Balham, the dwellings of South London,
earth scarred by missile blasts; the old church and
paddle pools, a Eucharist. The body,
blood of sacrament-- but what of the missiles?
The rockets born of hate and love called for
neck-deep trenches. Wood planks held the ground like
crucifixes, the criss cross strength of raid
asylums. And when the fires fell on
London, the land looked like some constellation,
a triune called for a slut's attention, to bow
her head in persecution before the saints,
and Mary Virgin, her word-bellied lover
holds her breasts before the alter, demands
above treble and explosion, “Hate Him”
the war world, rancor reverent, listened.
“I hate you, God. I hate you as though you existed.”--Graham Green The End of the Affair
Clapham Common, the sandwich shape of grassland,
a trinity of park ends: Battersea,
Balham, the dwellings of South London,
earth scarred by missile blasts; the old church and
paddle pools, a Eucharist. The body,
blood of sacrament-- but what of the missiles?
The rockets born of hate and love called for
neck-deep trenches. Wood planks held the ground like
crucifixes, the criss cross strength of raid
asylums. And when the fires fell on
London, the land looked like some constellation,
a triune called for a slut's attention, to bow
her head in persecution before the saints,
and Mary Virgin, her word-bellied lover
holds her breasts before the alter, demands
above treble and explosion, “Hate Him”
the war world, rancor reverent, listened.