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The Post Religious Age

 

The Post Religious Age

The underclass were depressed. The middle class were sanctimonious & aggressively scared. The upper class were invisible & inviolate. & David spoke from his throne. & Rome was disowned. & The centre was nowhere, maybe the Arctic cloud? I never dreamed that death would loom less than bureaucracy did. Of course I always knew that. Of course I always knew that. Outside the principal’s office. Never as a student, mind. I was pretty law abiding. Too frightened of home. No as a teacher I seemed to get more detentions for the same thing kids do. Namely having a personality. The bureaucracy stole my dreams & poems & visions to manacle me to the others & the machine. Fill in these forms. Fill in these forms. & so the storms kept rising as implosions, not explosions. & god blew his head off with a sawn off & emitted volcanic gasses & mass went on as usual. “Funny?,” people murmured. “Surely no one goes to Mass anymore? Such a Catholic poem is this. We’re all secularists here. What are you crapping on about. Sure we work for bureaucracy, but we long for our smart phones. They make us smarter.” & so the Organization! Controlled, our souls by Canonical lawyers tying mystics up in medieval knots. Instruments of torture was the music at the gallery – if I hear one more hit song sung as a dirge in a female voice described as ethereal I’ll follow god’s suit and have a millennial sabbatical & fire gunshots from my roof like a West Pakistani in emotional abandon. Transgression IS the votive! Mutherfuckers! & fuck a 19 year old bimbo just to piss you all off. So you can lodge your paperwork to the censor. Fuck you! Actually I think I’ll just talk with her. I’m too bourgeois for anything that primal. & a brief chat should do it. The whispers ’ll come like that Harry Potter stuff.

 

Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2024.

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