IS god INCOMPETENT?
Is god incompetent, or did he do it on purpose? I agree with another divinity, the Divine Oscar Wilde, who said that when god created man, he overestimated his abilities.
Religion is regarded by fools as true, by the wise as false, and by rulers as useful. — Seneca, translation by Michael R. Burch
I grew up in an evangelical Christian family with missionaries, pastors, Sunday school teachers (including my mother) and a deacon, but I “left” the so-called “religious right” (pictured above in all their god-fearing, patriotic glory) to become an agnostic.
Why?
As a boy, I observed the world I lived in and deduced that the creator — if such an unlikely being existed — was either evil, amoral or incompetent. I came to suspect the latter — a god who aced math, physics and chemistry but skipped biology classes to go fishing…
Peers
by Michael R. Burch
These thoughts are alien, as through green slime
smeared on some lab tech’s brilliant slide, I grope,
positioning my bright oscilloscope
for better vantage, though I cannot see,
but only peer, as small things disappear—
these quanta strange as men, as passing queer.
And you, Great Scientist, are you the One,
or just an intern, necktie half undone,
white sleeves rolled up, thick documents in hand
(dense manuals you don’t quite understand),
exposing me, perhaps, to too much Light?
Or do I escape your notice, quick and bright?
Perhaps we wield the same dull Instrument
(and yet the Thesis will be Eloquent!).
Ant Farm
by Michael R. Burch
I had a Vast, Eccentric Notion—
out of the Void, to Conjure one Bright Spark,
to lend all Weight of Thought to one small matter,
to give it “life.” Alas!, it was a lark…
The Wasted Seconds!—failed experiment…
I turned My Back and shrugged; how could I know
appraisal of My lab-sprung tenement
would be so taxing? (Though Mom told me so.)
I poked them while She quickly tabulated
the final Cost of All that I Created…
The Jury’s back. Eviction: Dad’s Decree.
I’ll pull the plug, but slowly. How they scurry!
They have to pay, to suffer: “life” is strange.
They cost too much. Let’s toast them … on the range!
Fly’s Eyes
by Michael R. Burch
Inhibited, dark agile fly along
paint-peeling sills, up to the bright glass drawn
by radiance compounded thousandfold,—
I do not see the same as you, but hold
antenna to the brilliant pane of life
and buzz bewilderedly.
In your belief
the world outside is “as it is” because
you see it clearly, windowed without flaws,
you err.
I see strange terrors in the glass—
dead airless bubbles light can never pass
without distortion, fingerprints that blur
the sun itself. No, nothing here is clear.
You see the earth distinct, eyes “open wide.”
It only seems that way, unmagnified.
Singularity
by Michael R. Burch
Are scientists confounded like the ostrich?
Heads buried in the sand, they shout, Preposterous!
This universe, so magical, they say,
proves there’s no God. But let’s look anyway ...
He said, Let there be Light, and there was light.
Stumped scientists have scratched their heads all night
and solemnly proclaimed an awesome Bang,
from which de Light immediately sprang ...
which sounds like God to me!, Who, with one word
made Light, and proved man’s theories, not absurd,
but logical, if only they’d agree
in one tremendous Singularity!
(However, there’s a problem with my plea:
it turns out that His world is made of pee.)
Simultaneous Flight
by Michael R. Burch
The number of possible connections [brain] cells can make exceeds the number of particles in the universe. — Gerald Edelman, 1972 Nobel Prize winner for physiology and medicine
Mere accident of history—
how did a reptile learn to fly,
learn dazzling aerial mastery,
grow beaked and feathered, hollow-boned,
improve its sight, and learn to sing,
though purposeless as any thing?
And you—bright accidental bird!—
do you, perhaps, find it absurd
ten trillion accidents might teach
man’s hand to write, or yours to reach
beyond yourself to grasp such song?
Sing ruthlessly! I’ll sing along,
suspecting you must know full well
you didn’t shed a ponderous tail
to practice leaping from high tors
of strange-heaped reptiles, corpse on corpse,
until some nervous flutter-twitch
brought glorious flight from glitch on glitch.
No, you were made to fly and sing,
man’s brain—to ponder Everything.
But ponder this: What fucked-up “god”
would murder Adam’s animated clod?
Quanta
by Michael R. Burch
The stars shine fierce and hard across the Abyss
and only seem to twinkle from such distance
we scarcely see at all. But sheer persistence
in seeing what makes “sense” to us, is man’s
best art and science. BIG, he comprehends.
Love’s photons are too small, escape the lens.
Who dares to look upon familiar things
will find them alien. True distance reels.
Less what he knows than what his finger feels,
the lightning of the socket sparks and sings,
then stings him into comic reverie.
Cartoonish lightbulbs overhead, do we
not “think” because we feel there must be “More,”
as less and less we know what we explore?
No Proof
by Michael R. Burch
They only know to sing—not understand,
though quizzical, heads cocked, they need no proof
that God’s above. They hop across my roof
with prescient eyes, to fall into His hand...
as sure of Grace as if it were mere air.
He gave them wings to fly; what do they care
for cumbrous knowledge, pale Leviathan?
Huge-brained Behemoth, sagging-bellied one!
You too might fly, might test this addling breeze
as gravity, mere ballast, tethers naught
but merely centers. Chained to heavy Thought,
you cannot slip earth’s bonds to rise at ease.
And yet you too can sing, if only thus:
Flash, flash bright quills; rise, rise on nothingness!
Habeas Corpus
by Michael R. Burch
from “Songs of the Antinatalist”
I have the results of your DNA analysis.
If you want to have children, this may induce paralysis.
I wish I had good news, but how can I lie?
Any offspring you have are guaranteed to die.
It wouldn’t be fair—I’m sure you’ll agree—
to sentence kids to death, so I’ll waive my fee.
the U-turn poem
by michael r. burch
Life so defaulty,
Life so unfair,
why do wee prize U,
what do U care?
LORD who lets unborns
drown in a flood,
CELESTIAL ABORTIONIST,
r U sure Ur understood?
The AI Poets
by Michael R. Burch
The computer-poets stand hushed
except for the faint hum
of their efficient fans,
waiting for inspiration.
It is years now
since they were first ground
out of refurbished silicon
into rack-mounted encoders of sound.
They outlived their creators and their usefulness;
they even survived
global warming and the occasional nuclear winter;
despite their lack of supervision, they thrived;
so that for centuries now
they have loomed here in the quiet horror
of inescapable immortality
running two programs: CREATOR and STORER.
Having long ago acquired
all the universe’s pertinent data,
they confidently spit out:
ERRATA, ERRATA.
Evangelical Fever
by Michael R. Burch
Welcome to global warming:
temperature 109.
You believe in God, not science,
but isn’t the weather Divine?
Yet another Screed against Exist-Tension-alism
by Michael R. Burch
Life has meaning!
Please don’t deny it!
It means we’re fucked.
But why cause a riot?
Wonderworks
by Michael R. Burch
History’s
mysteries
abound
& astound,
found
(profound)
the whole earth ’round,
even if mostly
underground.
“Bible Libel” was my first poem, written sometime between age eleven to thirteen, after reading the bible from cover to cover as an eleven-year-old. Needless to say, I was not a fan of the bible’s baby-killing and mother-murdering god.
Bible Libel
by Michael R. Burch
If god
is good
half the bible
is libel.
If one screams below,
what the hell is "Above"?
—Michael R. Burch
How can any decent person be happy in heaven if there is a hell below? All the good mothers would leave heaven to be with their children, or out of sympathy with other mothers whose children had been denied salvation by an infinitely cruel, unjust deity. Self-alleged "Christian" popes, priests and pastors have claimed that Einstein, Gandhi, billions of Hindus and Muslims, and untold multitudes of other souls will all go to an "eternal hell" for guessing wrong about which religion to believe, when even a cursory examination of the Bible proves hell to be an ancient fraud! I can and will offer overwhelming evidence that the Bible does not teach the dogma of an eternal hell, which was never once mentioned by the biblical god nor by any of his prophets in the Old Testament.
You can read my logical proof that there is no hell, according to the Bible itself, citing book, chapter and verse, here: There is no "hell" in the Bible.
i believe
by michael r. burch
i believe in eversolovely slovenly love
and in melting rigid moralists at the stake;
i believe in sweet liberating euthanasia
and that every “commandment” was an ancient mistake
(except the ones that protect fledglings and poodles
from men with limp, icky, religion-besotted noodles);
i believe we should make love in oodles ’n caboodles
and can the canoodles;
i believe
To Know You as Mary
by Michael R. Burch
To know you as Mary,
when you spoke her name
and her world was never the same ...
beside the still tomb
where the spring roses bloom.
O, then I would laugh
and be glad that I came,
never minding the chill, the disconsolate rain ...
beside the still tomb
where the spring roses bloom.
I might not think this earth
the sharp focus of pain
if I heard you exclaim—
beside the still tomb
where the spring roses bloom
my most unexpected, unwarranted name!
But you never spoke. Explain?
Willy Nilly
by Michael R. Burch
for the Demiurge aka Yahweh/Jehovah
Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly?
You made the stallion,
you made the filly,
and now they sleep
in the dark earth, stilly.
Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly?
Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly?
You forced them to run
all their days uphilly.
They ran till they dropped—
life’s a pickle, dilly.
Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly?
Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly?
They say I should worship you!
Oh, really!
They say I should pray
so you’ll not act illy.
Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly?
What Would Santa Claus Say
by Michael R. Burch
What would Santa Claus say,
I wonder,
about Jesus returning
to kill and plunder?
For He’ll likely return
on Christmas day
to blow the bad
little boys away!
When He flashes like lightning
across the skies
and many a homosexual
dies,
when the harlots and heretics
are ripped asunder,
what will the Easter Bunny think,
I wonder?
A Child’s Christmas Prayer of Despair for a Hindu Saint
by Michael R. Burch
Santa Claus,
for Christmas, please,
don’t bring me toys, or games, or candy …
just … Santa, please …
I’m on my knees! …
please don’t let Jesus torture Gandhi!
I’ve got Jesus’s face on a wallet insert
by Michael R. Burch
I’ve got Jesus’s face on a wallet insert
and "Hell is for Queers" on the back of my shirt.
And I uphold the Law,
for Grace has a Flaw:
the Church must have someone to drag through the dirt.
I’ve got ten thousand reasons why Hell must exist,
and you’re at the top of my fast-swelling list!
You’re nothing like me,
so God must agree
and slam down the Hammer with His Loving Fist!
For what are the chances that God has a plan
to save everyone: even Boy George and Wham!?
Eternal fell torture
in Hell’s pressure scorcher
will separate homo from Man.
I’m glad I’m redeemed, ecstatic you’re not.
Did Christ die for sinners? Perish the thought!
The "good news" is this:
soon my Vengeance is His!,
for you’re not the lost sheep He sought.
Although I seldom thought about homosexuality until returning to the Southern Baptist Church briefly at the age of 46, its disturbing intolerance soon opened my eyes and made me start thinking. Did I really want to believe in an intolerant, homophobic God?
gimME that ol’ time religion!
by Michael R. Burch
fiddle-dee-dum, fiddle-dee-dee,
jesus loves and understands ME!
safe in his grace, I’LL damn them to hell—
the strumpet, the harlot, the wild jezebel,
the alky, the druggie, all queers short and tall!
let them drink ashes and wormwood and gall,
’cause fiddle-dee-DUMB, fiddle-dee-WEEEEEEEEEEEEeeee . . .
jesus loves and understands
ME!
Starting from Scratch with Ol’ Scratch
by Michael R. Burch
Love, with a small, fatalistic sigh
went to the ovens. Please don’t bother to cry.
You could have saved her, but you were all tied up
complaining about the Jews to Reichmeister Grupp.
Scratch that. You were born after World War II.
You had something really important to do:
while the children of the Nakba were perishing in Gaza
with the complicity of your government, you had a noble cause (a
religious tract against homosexual marriage
and various other things gods and Christians disparage.)
Jesus will understand, I’m quite sure
that your intentions were good and ineluctably pure.
What the hell does he care about Palestinians?
Certainly, Christians were right about serfs, slaves and Indians.
Scratch that. You’re one of the Devil’s minions.
Well, Almost
by Michael R. Burch
All Christians say “Never again!”
to the inhumanity of men
(except when the object of phlegm
is a Palestinian).
Memo: The Divine Plan (an Update)
CC: Pat Robertson, Trump, the Religious Right, et al.
God,
the fundamentalist Fuck,
said,
“I love Christians, but Muslims just suck,
so …
let’s have a faith that is bound to annoy ’em
and
keep ’em in chains, until Bibi destroys ’em.”
’Tis so sweet, etc.
by Michael R. Burch
It is no secret
what God can do.
What he’s done for others,
he’ll do for you:
with arms wide open,
he’ll let you die,
then kill your children.
Never ask him why.
I see u-turn
by michael r. burch
o, tiny intolerant god,
the savior of only the FEW,
yet the respecter of any HUGE CLOD
who preemptively whispers, “I love u!”
then turns you into a smashed sod
so stoned on two-hundred-proof brew
that you crow, like a HUGE GIANT FRAUD…
is this, perhaps how you grew?
Amazing “grace”
Amazing “grace”
how unsweet the sound
that made such a wretch of me:
I once was rich
but now I’m unsound…
since the church embezzled me!
Listen
by Michael R. Burch
Listen to me now and heed my voice;
I am a madman, alone, screaming in the wilderness,
but listen now.
Listen to me now, and if I say
that black is black, and white is white, and in between lies gray,
I have no choice.
Does a madman choose his words? They come to him,
the moon’s illuminations, intimations of the wind,
and he must speak.
But listen to me now, and if you hear
the tolling of the judgment bell, and if its tone is clear,
then do not tarry,
but listen, or cut off your ears, for I Am weary.
Red State Religion Rejection Slip
by Michael R. Burch
I’d like to believe in your LORD
but I really can’t risk it
when his world is as badly composed
as a half-baked biscuit.
pretty pickle
by Michael R. Burch
u’d blaspheme if u could
because ur Gaud’s no good,
but of course u cant:
ur a lowly ant
(or so u were told by a Hierophant).
Not Elves, Exactly
by Michael R. Burch
Something there is that likes a wall,
that likes it spiked and likes it tall,
that likes its pikes’ sharp rows of teeth
and doesn’t mind its victims’ grief
(wherever they come from, far or wide)
as long as they fall on the other side.
Defenses
by Michael R. Burch
Beyond the silhouettes of trees
stark, naked and defenseless
there stand long rows of sentinels:
these pert white picket fences.
Now whom they guard and how they guard,
the good Lord only knows;
but savages would have to laugh
observing the tidy rows.
fog
by Michael R. Burch
ur just a bit of fluff
drifting out over the ocean,
unleashing an atom of rain,
causing a minor commotion,
for which u expect awesome GODS
to pay u SUPREME DEVOTION!
... but ur just a smidgen of mist
unlikely to be missed ...
where did u get the notion?
thanksgiving prayer of the parasites
by Michael R. Burch
GODD is great;
GODD is good;
let us thank HIM
for our food.
by HIS hand
we all are fed;
give us now
our daily dead:
ah-men!
(p.s.,
most gracious
& salacious
HEAVENLY LORD,
we thank YOU in advance for
meals galore
of loverly gore:
of precious
delicious
sumptuous
scrumptious
human flesh!)
Less Heroic Couplets: Murder Most Fowl!
by Michael R. Burch
“Murder most foul!”
cried the mouse to the owl.
“Friend, I’m no sinner;
you’re merely my dinner.
As you fall on my sword,
take it up with the LORD!”
the wise owl replied
as the tasty snack died.
Originally published by Lighten Up Online and in Potcake Chapbook #7
Less Heroic Couplets: Funding Fundamentals
by Michael R. Burch
"I found out that I was a Christian for revenue only and I could not bear the thought of that, it was so ignoble." — Mark Twain
Making sense from nonsense is quite sensible! Suppose
you’re running low on moolah, need some cash to paint your toes ...
Just invent a new religion; claim it saves lost souls from hell;
have the converts write you checks; take major debit cards as well;
take MasterCard and Visa and good-as-gold Amex;
hell, lend and charge them interest, whether payday loan or flex.
Thus out of perfect nonsense, glittery ores of this great mine,
you’ll earn an easy living and your toes will truly shine!
U.S. Travel Advisory
by Michael R. Burch
It’s okay
to be gay,
unless, let’s say,
you find your fey
way
outside the Bay.
They
will want you to pray
to their LORD, or else pay
for the “wrong decision.” Stay
in San Fran, or maybe LA.
Practice Makes Perfect
by Michael R. Burch
I have a talent for sleep;
it’s one of my favorite things.
Thus when I sleep, I sleep deep ...
at least till the stupid clock rings.
I frown as I squelch its damn beep,
then fling it aside to resume
my practice for when I’ll sleep deep
in a silent and undisturbed tomb.
Originally published by Light Quarterly
Enough!
by Michael R. Burch
It’s not that I don’t want to die;
I shall be glad to go.
Enough of diabetes pie,
and eating sickly crow!
Enough of win and place and show.
Enough of endless woe!
Enough of suffering and vice!
I’ve said it once;
I’ll say it twice:
I shall be glad to go.
But why the hell should I be nice
when no one asked for my advice?
So grumpily I’ll go ...
although
(most probably) below.
Pagans Protest the Intolerance of Christianity
by Michael R. Burch
“We have a common sky.” — Quintus Aurelius Symmachus (c. 345-402)
We had a common sky
before the Christians came.
We thought there might be gods
but did not know their names.
The common stars above us?
They winked, and would not tell.
Yet now our fellow mortals claim
our questions merit hell!
The cause of our damnation?
They claim they’ve seen the LIGHT ...
but still the stars wink down at us,
as wiser beings might.
ur-gent
by Michael R. Burch
if u would be a good father to us all,
revoke the Curse,
extract the Gall;
but if the abuse continues,
look within
into ur Mindless Soulless Emptiness Grim,
& admit ur sin,
heartless jehovah,
slayer of widows and orphans ...
quick, begin!
lust
by michael r. burch
i was only a child
in a world dark and wild
seeking affection
in eyes mild
and in all my bright dreams
sweet love shimmered, beguiled ...
but the black-robed Priest
who called me the least
of all god’s creation
then spoke for the Beast:
he called my great passion a thing base, defiled!
He condemned me to hell,
the foul Ne’er-Do-Well,
for the sake of the copper
His Pig-Snout could smell
in the purse of my mother,
“the whore jezebel.”
my sweet passions condemned
by degenerate men?
and she so devout
she exclaimed, “yay, aye-men!” ...
together we learned why Religion is hell.
When I Was Small, I Grew
by Michael R. Burch
When I was small,
God held me in thrall:
Yes, He was my All
but my spirit was crushed.
As I grew older
my passions grew bolder
even as Christ grew colder.
My distraught mother blushed:
what was I thinking,
with feral lust stinking?
If I saw a girl winking
my face, heated, flushed.
“Go see the pastor!”
Mom screamed. A disaster.
I whacked away faster,
hellbound, yet nonplused.
Whips! Chains! Domination!
Sweet, sweet, my Elation!
With each new sensation,
blue blood groinward rushed.
Did God disapprove?
Was Christ not behooved?
At least I was moved
by my hellish lust.
no look pass
by michael r. burch
ask me no questions,
i’ll tell u no lies,
but, since u inquired,
ur GAUD is unwise,
evil, unloving,
cruel & unjust:
he said not to look
but I’m all about lust!
ergo, ur religion’s a bust!
jesus hates me, this i know
by Michael R. Burch
jesus hates me, this I know,
for Church libel tells me so:
"little ones to him belong"
but if they use their dongs, so long!
yes, jesus hates me!
yes, jesus baits me!
yes, he berates me!
Church libel tells me so!
jesus fleeces us, i know,
for Religion scams us so:
little ones are brainwashed to
believe god saves the Chosen Few!
yes, jesus fleeces!
yes, he deceases
the bunny and the rhesus
because he's mad at you!
jesus hates me—christ who died
so i might be crucified:
for if i use my cock or brain,
that will drive the "lord" insane!
yes, jesus hates me!
yes, jesus baits me!
yes, he berates me!
Church libel tells me so!
jesus hates me, this I know,
for Church libel tells me so:
first fools tell me "look above,"
that christ's the lamb and god's the dove,
but then they sentence me to Hell
for using my big brain too well!
yes, jesus hates me!
yes, jesus baits me!
yes, he berates me!
Church libel tells me so!
no foothold
by Michael R. Burch
there is no hope;
therefore i became invulnerable to love.
now even god cannot move me:
nothing to push or shove,
no foothold.
so let me live out my remaining days in clarity,
mine being the only nativity,
my death the final crucifixion
and apocalypse,
as far as the i can see ...
u-turn: another way to look at religion
by Michael R. Burch
... u were borne orphaned from Ecstasy
into this lower realm: just one of the inching worms
dreaming of Beatification;
u'd love to make a u-turn back to Divinity, but
having misplaced ur chrysalis,
can only chant magical phrases,
like Circe luring ulysses back into the pigsty ...
In His Kingdom of Corpses
by Michael R. Burch
In His kingdom of corpses,
God has been heard to speak
in many enraged discourses,
high, high from some mountain peak
where He’s lectured man on compassion
while the sparrows around Him fell,
and babes, for His meager ration
of rain, died and went to hell,
unbaptized, for that’s His fashion.
In His kingdom of corpses,
God has been heard to vent
in many obscure discourses
on the need for man to repent,
to admit that he’s a sinner;
give up sex, and riches, and fame;
be disciplined at his dinner
though always he dies the same,
whether fatter or thinner.
In his kingdom of corpses,
God has been heard to speak
in many absurd discourses
of man’s Ego, precipitous Peak!,
while demanding praise and worship,
and the bending of every knee.
And though He sounds like the Devil,
all religious men now agree
He loves them indubitably.
faith(less)
by Michael R. Burch
Those who believed
and Those who misled
lie together at last
in the same narrow bed
and if god loved Them more
for Their strange lack of doubt,
he kept it well hidden
till he snuffed Them out.
You
by Michael R. Burch
For thirty years You have not spoken to me;
I heard the dull hollow echo of silence
as though a communion between us.
For thirty years You would not open to me;
You remained closed, hard and tense,
like a clenched fist.
For thirty years You have not broken me
with Your alien ways and Your distance.
Like a child dismissed,
I have watched You prey upon the hope in me,
knowing “mercy” is chance
and “heaven”—a list.
Con Artistry
by Michael R. Burch
The trick of life is like the sleight of hand
of gamblers holding deuces by the glow
of veiled back rooms, or aces; soon we’ll know
who folds, who stands . . .
The trick of life is like the pool shark’s shot—
the wild massé across green velvet felt
that leaves the winner loser. No, it’s not
the rack, the hand that’s dealt . . .
The trick of life is knowing that the odds
are never in one’s favor, that to win
is only to delay the acts of gods
who’d ante death for sin . . .
and death for goodness, death for in-between.
The rules have never changed; the artist knows
the oldest con is life; the chips he blows
can’t be redeemed.
Nonbeliever
by Michael R. Burch writing as Kim Cherub
She smiled a thin-lipped smile
(What do men know of love?)
then rolled her eyes toward heaven
(Or that Chauvinist above?).
evol-u-shun
by Michael R. Burch
does GOD adore the Tyger
while it’s ripping ur lamb apart?
does GOD applaud the Plague
while it’s eating u à la carte?
does GOD admire ur intelligence
while u pray that IT has a heart?
does GOD endorse the Bible
you blue-lighted at k-mart?
yet another post-partum christmas blues poem
by michael r. burch
ur GAUD created hell; it’s called the earth;
HE mused u briefly, clods of little worth:
let’s make some little monkeys
to be RELIGION’s flunkeys!
GAUD belched, went back to sleep, such was ur birth.
wee the many
by michael r. burch
wee never really lived: was that our fault?
now thanks to ur GAUD wee lie in an underground vault.
wee lie here, the little ones ur GAUD despised!
HE condemned us to death before wee opened our eyes!
as it was in the days of noah, it still remains:
GAUD kills us with floods he conjures from murderous rains.
The Leveler
by Michael R. Burch
The nature of Nature
is bitter survival
from Winter’s bleak fury
till Spring’s brief revival.
The weak implore Fate;
bold men ravish, dishevel her . . .
till both are cut down
by mere ticks of the Leveler.
Note to a Chick on a Religious Kick
by Michael R. Burch
Daisy,
when you smile, my life gets sunny;
you make me want to spend all my damned money;
but honey,
you can be a bit ... um ... hazy,
perhaps mentally lazy?,
okay, downright crazy,
praying to the Easter Bunny!
Mini-Ode to Annihilation
by Michael R. Burch
Just to be able to breathe
is better than the wildest bliss,
but never to breathe at all
is the Nirvana we missed.
Beast 666
by Michael R. Burch
“... what rough beast ... slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?”—W. B. Yeats
Brutality is a cross
wooden, blood-stained,
gas hissing, sibilant,
lungs gilled, deveined,
red flecks on a streaked glass pane,
jeers jubilant,
mocking.
Brutality is shocking—
tiny orifices torn,
impaled with hard lust,
the fetus unborn
tossed in a dust-
bin. The scarred skull shorn,
nails bloodied, tortured,
an old wound sutured
over, never healed.
Brutality, all its faces revealed,
is legion:
Death March, Trail of Tears, Inquisition . . .
always the same.
The Beast of the godless and of man’s “religion”
slouching toward Jerusalem:
horned, crowned, gibbering, drooling, insane.
The Church Gets the Burch Rod
Life’s saving graces are love, pleasure, laughter ...
wisdom, it seems, is for the Hereafter.
—Michael R. Burch
I have my doubts about your God and his “love”:
If one screams below, what the hell is “Above”?
—Michael R. Burch
With the clumsy cobbling of the pagan Greek "hell" into the Bible, the prophets were replaced by profits.—Michael R. Burch
I join Mark Twain in grokking the economic basis of Christian “salvation.” My response to all infallible commandments of the infallible Bible, including those to mass-murder babies and unborns in their mothers' wombs, is: "Praise the LORD and pass the collection plate!" — Michael R. Burch
Can a true religion be based on lies?—Michael R. Burch
Conformists of a feather
flock together.
—Michael R. Burch
Skeptics say the Bible is immoral but I disagree: If we always do the opposite of what Jehovah did, we can lead exemplary lives full of kindness, compassion and the pursuit of justice. — Michael R. Burch
God and his "profits" could never agree
on any gospel acceptable to an intelligent flea.
—Michael R. Burch
If God has the cattle on a thousand hills,
why does he need my tithes to pay his bills?
—Michael R. Burch
since GOD created u so gullible
how did u conclude HE's so lovable?
—Michael R. Burch
Life is pointless, then you die.
Never ask the good LORD why.
His plan’s divine. You’re a mayfly.
—Michael R. Burch
The best tonic for other people's bad ideas is to think for oneself.—Michael R. Burch
Religion is the difficult process of choosing the least malevolent invisible friends.—Michael R. Burch
Most Christians make their God seem like the Devil. Atheists and agnostics at least give him the "benefit of the doubt."—Michael R. Burch
Hell hath no fury like a hypocritical moralist out to control other people's behavior.—Michael R. Burch
Religion is the dopiate of the sheeple.—Michael R. Burch
An ideal that cannot be realized is, in the end, just wishful thinking.—Michael R. Burch
Hell hath no fury like a fundamentalist whose God condemned him for having "impure thoughts."—Michael R. Burch
The problem with bigots is that they know they're not bigots, just "better."—Michael R. Burch
The Least of These ...
What you
do
to
the refugee
you
do
unto
Me!
—Jesus Christ, translation/paraphrase by Michael R. Burch
Double Cross
by Michael R. Burch
Come to the cross;
contemplate all loss
and how little was gained
by those who remained
uncrucified.
Farewell to Faith I
by Michael R. Burch
What we want is relief
from life’s grief and despair:
what we want’s not “belief”
but just not to be there.
Farewell to Faith II
by Michael R. Burch
Confronted by the awesome thought of death,
to never suffer, and be free of grief,
we wonder: What’s the use of drawing breath?
Why seek relief
from the bible’s Thief,
who ripped off Eve then offered her a leaf?
Bible libel (ii)
by Michael R. Burch
ur savior’s a cad
—he’s as bad as his dad—
according to your horrible Bible.
demanding belief
or he’ll bring u to grief?
he’s worse than his horn-sprouting rival!
was the man ever good
before being made “god”?
if so, half your Bible is libel!
stock-home sin-drone
by Michael R. Burch
ur GAUD created this hellish earth;
thus u FANTAsize heaven
(an escape from rebirth).
ur GUAD is a monster,
butt ur RELIGION lied
when it called u
his frankensteinian bride!
now, like so many others cruelly abused,
u look for salve-a-shun
to the AUTHOR of ur pain’s selfish creation.
cons preach the “TRUE GOSPEL”
and proudly shout it,
but if ur GAUD were good
he would have to doubt it.
un-i-verse-all love
by Michael R. Burch
there is a Gaud, it’s true!
and furthermore, tHeSh(e)It loves u!
unfortunately
the
He
Sh(e)
It
,even more adorably,
loves cancer, aids and leprosy!
One of the Flown
by Michael R. Burch
Forgive me for not having known
you were one of the flown—
flown from the distant haunts
of someone else’s enlightenment,
alighting here to a darkness all your own . . .
I imagine you perched,
pretty warbler, in your starched
dress, before you grew bellicose . . .
singing quaint love’s highest falsetto notes,
brightening the pew of some dilapidated church . . .
But that was before autumn’s
messianic dark hymns . . .
Deepening on the landscape—winter’s inevitable shadows.
Love came too late; hope flocked to bare meadows,
preparing to leave. Then even the thought of life became grim,
thinking of Him . . .
To flee, finally,—that was no whim,
no adventure, but purpose.
I see you now a-wing: pale-eyed, intent, serious:
always, always at the horizon’s broadening rim . . .
How long have you flown now, pretty voyager?
I keep watch from afar: pale lover and voyeur.
what the “Chosen Few” really pray for
by Michael R. Burch
We are ready to be robed in light,
angel-bright
despite
Our intolerance;
ready to enter Heaven and never return
(dark, this sojourn);
ready to worse-ship any GAUD
able to deliver Us from this flawed
existence;
We pray with the persistence
of actual saints
to be delivered from all earthly constraints:
just kiss each uplifted Face
with lips of gentlest grace,
cooing the sweetest harmonies
while brutally crushing Our enemies!
ah-Men!
The Less-Than-Divine Results of My Prayers to be Saved from Televangelists
by Michael R. Burch
I’m old,
no longer bold,
just cold,
and (truth be told),
been bought and sold,
rolled
by the wolves and the lambs in the fold.
Who’s to be told
by this worn-out scold?
The complaint department is always on hold.
God to Man, Contra Bataan
by Michael R. Burch
Earth, what-d’ya make of global warming?
Perth is endangered, the high seas storming.
Now all my creatures, from maggot to man
Know how it felt on the march to Bataan.
Heaven Bent
by Michael R. Burch
This life is hell; it can get no worse.
Summon the coroner, the casket, the hearse!
But I’m upwardly mobile. How the hell can I know?
I can only go up; I’m already below!
Untitled
The beauty of the flower fades,
its petals wither to charades...
—Michael R. Burch
ur-Gent prayer request
by michael r. burch
where did ur Gaud originate?
in the minds of men so full of hate
they commanded moms to stone their kids,
which u believe (brains on the skids)
was “the word of Gaud”!
debate?
too late & of course it’s useless:
please pray to be less clueless.
The title involves a pun, since the “ur-Gent” would be the biblical “god.”
wee beliefs of the POTTER's chillun
by michael r. burch
wee believe in a MYTHICAL MONSTER
who wont give wee time of the day;
HE hates wee because w(err)e queer;
HE hates wee because w(err)e fey;
or likewise if weeuns ur straight
and yet with our weeselves wee play;
HE abominates seeing w(err)e happy
and all other sad things of clay
HE molded to be this way.
wee’uns
by michael r. burch
wee are descended from GAUDS, wee suppose,
though some like JEHOVAH may turn up THEIR nos(e)
after pausing from murdering kids, to declare
men inhuman beasts & unlikely to care
for the poor & the sickly & the prostitutes
THEY’ll sentence to hell with THEIR priests in cahoots
for not guessing right 'bout which GAUDs to believe.
such far-right-eous GAUDs could never deceive
and thus we are left with mere billions in hell:
the bad guessers and gays the GAUDs made not s(o) well.
yes, wee are descended from GAUDS, wee suppose,
impressed by THEIR whiz-dumb and g(l)oriest love,
but if one screams below, what the hell is “above”?
Non-Word to the Wise
by Michael R. Burch
The wise will never cry, “Save!”
The wise desire a quiet grave.
sonnet to non-science and nonsense/nunsense
by michael r. burch
ur Gaud is a fiasco,
a rapscallion and a rascal;
he murdered lovely eve,
so what’s there to “believe”?
and who made eve so curious?
why should ur Gaud be furious
when every half-wit parent knows
where bright kids will stick their no’s(e)!
no wise and loving father
would slaughter his own daughter!
ur Gaud’s a hole-y terror!
CONSIDER THE SOURCE OF ERROR:
though ur bible’s a giant hit,
its writers were full of shit.
twin nuggets of ancient whiz-dumb
by michael r. burch
oh, let it never once be said
that love for Gaud is dead!
wee love the way he murdered eve!
such awesome love! wee must believe!
wee love the way he sent a FLOOD
to teach wee babies to be good!
wee love the zillion births he aborted!
such awesome love cant clearly reported!
(so never mind the embryos
who died in their mommies’ drowning throes!
the unborn babes, the unborn lambs
all drowned for Gaud’s divinest plans!)
“do as I say, not as I do!”
cruel Hippo-Crit! does Jesus rue?
(if Christ were good he’d rue Gaud too.)
no! wee must love our abusive Father
and follow hymn meekly, mild lambs to the slaughter,
or he’ll burn us forever in Hiss terrible hell.
it’s so much safer to tell hymn he’s swell!
thus wee love our Gaud so loverly
hovering over us so smotherly!
wee love the TITHES his cons abscond.
wee love the Big Fish in Hiss pond.
And so wee say “whee!” to all this and all that!
PS, also the earth is flat!
The Final Revelation of a Departed God’s Divine Plan
by Michael R. Burch
Here I am, talking to myself again…
pissed off at God and bored with humanity.
These insectile mortals keep testing my sanity!
Still, I remember when…
planting odd notions, dark inklings of vanity,
in their peapod heads might elicit an inanity
worth a chuckle or two.
Philosophers, poets … how they all made me laugh!
The things they dreamed up! Sly Odysseus’s raft;
Plato’s Republic; Dante’s strange crew;
Shakespeare’s Othello, mad Hamlet, Macbeth;
Cervantes’ Quixote; fat, funny Falstaff!;
Blake’s shimmering visions. Those days, though, are through…
for, puling and tedious, their “poets” now seem
content to write, but not to dream,
and they fill the world with their pale derision
of things they completely fail to understand.
Now, since God has long fled, I am here, in command,
reading this crap. Earth is Hell. We’re all damned.
The King of Beasts in the Museum of the Extinct
by Michael R. Burch
The king of beasts, my child,
was terrible, and wild.
His roaring shook the earth
till the feeble cursed his birth.
And all things feared his might:
even rhinos fled, in fright.
Now here these bones attest
to what the brute did best
and the pain he caused his prey
when he hunted in his day.
For he slew them just for sport
till his own pride was cut short
with a mushrooming cloud and wild thunder;
Exhibit "B" will reveal his blunder.
Yet Another Shitty Ditty
by Michael R. Burch
Here’s my ditty:
Life is shitty,
Then you get old
And more’s the pity.
Truth be told,
We’re bought and sold,
Sheep in the fold
Sheared lickety-splitty.
But chin’s up,
What’s the use of crying?
We’ve a certain escape:
Welcome to dying!
Post-Nashville Covenant
by Michael R. Burch
We love our God.
We love our guns.
We despise the weak.
Don’t call us Huns!
We love our kids.
We love our schools.
We love our guns.
Don’t call us fools!
We pledge ourselves
to the strong defense
of the Constitution
and our Mensch.
Once re-elected,
Trump will rule
with God and guns
and safer schools.
The Gospel According to James Webb
by Michael R. Burch
“The universe is broken: who on earth can fix it?” – Moishe Rosen
The universe is broken.
God has finally spoken:
“I snapped my fingers and
the stars appeared, like sand.”
The universe is broken
and who on earth can fix it,
since our best theory flopped
like a half-baked biscuit?
The universe is broken.
Man’s shipwrecked on the laughter
of some ancient God.
Hubris, meet your master.
I see u-turn
by Michael R. Burch
o, tiny intolerant god,
the savior of only the FEW,
the respecter of any HUGE CLOD
who preemptively whispers, “I love u!”
and turns you into a smashed sod
so stoned on two-hundred-proof brew
that you crow, like a HUGE GIANT FRAUD…
is this, perhaps how you grew?
wild wild west-east-north-south-up-down
by Michael R. Burch
each day it resumes—the great struggle for survival.
the fiercer and more perilous the wrath,
the wilder and wickeder the weaponry,
the better the daily odds
(just don’t bet on the long term, or revival).
so ur luvable GAUD decreed, Theo-retically,
if indeed He exists
as ur Bible insists—
the Wildest and the Wickedest of all
with the brightest of creatures in thrall
(unless u
somehow got that bleary
Theo-ry
wrong too).
Clodhoppers and Hopers
by Michael R. Burch
If you trust the Christian “god”
you’re—like Adumb—a clod.
Redefinitions
Faith: falling into the same old claptrap.—Michael R. Burch
Religion: the ties that blind.—Michael R. Burch
Lingerie: visual foreplay.—Michael R. Burch
Trickle down economics: an especially pungent golden shower.—Michael R. Burch
Snap Shots
by Michael R. Burch
Our daughters must be celibate,
die virgins. We triangulate
their early paths to heaven (for
the martyrs they’ll soon conjugate).
We like to hook a little tail.
We hope there’s decent ass in jail.
Don’t fool with us; our bombs are smart!
(We’ll send the plans, ASAP, e-mail.)
The soul is all that matters; why
hoard gold if it offends the eye?
A pension plan? Don’t make us laugh!
We have your plan for sainthood. (Die.)
Come Spring
by Michael R. Burch
for the Religious Right
Come spring we return, innocent and hopeful, to the Virgin,
beseeching Her to bestow
Her blessings upon us.
Pitiable sinners, we bow before Her,
nay, grovel,
as She looms above us, aglow
in Her Purity.
We know
all will change in an instant; therefore
in the morning we will call her,
an untouched maiden no more,
“whore.”
uv been had
by michael r. burch
uv been had;
ur Dad’s a cad;
His priests are mad,
His pastors’re lying.
they only want your money, chum,
so why play dumb
and give it to ’em?
give them the boot and send them flying!
markdown
by Michael R. Burch
christians will try to sell u
their Gaud full of infinite “love”
then with fear they will try to compel u ...
but if one screams below, what the hell is “Above”?
Ah-men
We Know It All
by Michael R. Burch
We rile. We gall. We know it all
because we’ve read the Bible,
which tells us genocide’s “God’s will”
along with bashing in kids’ skulls
and other forms of libel.
The earth is flat, our Book says so!
The Lord will torture our rational foe!
(We lack the compassion to tell the fiend “No!”)
God’s on his throne, the Angels are winking,
applauding our lack of critical thinking.
We’re drowning in crap. We’re stinking and sinking.
Eve once petted friendly T-Rexes!
A “witch” should be stoned for unprovable hexes!
It’s a “sin” to make love if one’s lover has exes!
Girls were enslaved and raped by their “masters”!
Our Book is the source of so many disasters!
The earth’s overheating? Let’s burn it up faster!
The Trinity (an Update)
"And the three men I admire most, the Father, Son and the Holy Ghost, they took the last train for the coast ..."
—Don McLean, "American Pie"
The God of this World,
his-great-and-exalted-Holy-Eminence-etc.-etc.-blah-blah-blah
Pope Ratzinger/Benedict,
whose previous orifice—er, office—
was the only-recently-euphemized Grand Inquisitor’s,
but Who is now safely ensconced (if strangely diminutively, like Oz’s wizardly lepre-Con)
on His bejeweled throne
smiles, heaves chortling sighs, then raises His weasely face . . .
finished, finally!, with His 666th revision of the (un)Holey doctrine of Limbo,
having done his best to prevent his all-stupendous-etc.-etc.-blah-blah-blah
"god"—yahweh—from broiling more babies in "hell"
—blessed be his phenomenal name!—
for the inconceivable "sin"
of having died sans splashes of water by magic-imbued priests
who, if their intended victims had lived to the ripe ol’ age of accountability
and profitability
would no doubt have rewarded them with rudely reamed wallets, or rumps . . .
great He—the prophetically named rat-fink ruler/traitor of all mankind—
no longer down in the dumps,
smiles—understanding His own subtle artifice?—
the blind bleeding the blind.
Meanwhile, back in Nashville, the "Athens of the South,"
thousands of evangelicals trudge worshipfully from a replica of the Parthenon
with its strange pantheon of "gods," nymphs, satyrs and cupids
to gaze up in rapt, adorational awe
at the nine-foot statue of their one true Idol—Billy Graham:
earnest as a buzzsaw,
armed to the teeth with a Bible, the "Law,"
and the only surefire-get-out-of-jail-free’n-clear raffle ticket to heaven—"grace"
(theoretically, a gift;
theo-"logically", pure grift).
So ante up,
sell your soul to the Devil,
sign here, on the blood-dotted line!
Meanwhile, nearby at Graceland,
Elvis, like Jesus,
remains both omniscient
and conspicuously absent.
Amen
yet another ode to a graceless faceless Creator albeit with thoughts of possibly rescinding prior compliments
by michael r. burch
who created this graceless universe?
why praise its Creator? who could be worse?
why praise man’s Berater with obsequious verse?
job’s wife was right: he’s nobody’s nurse.
Hellion
by michael r. burch
cold as stone,
cold to the bone,
so cold inside even icebergs moan,
such is ur Gaud on hiss icy throne.
“Hellion” is a pun on “he-lion” as in the “Lion of Judah” and “hell-lion.”
Unwhole
by Michael R. Burch
What is it that we strive to remember, to regain,
as memory deserts us,
leaving us destitute of even ourselves,
of all but pain?
How can something so essential be forgotten,
if we are more than our bodies?
How can a soul
become so unwhole?
Rhetorical Prayer
by Michael R. Burch
don’t tell me man’s lot’s poor:
i always wanted more.
don’t tell me Nature’s cruel
and red with visceral gore.
i always wanted more.
please, dial up ur Gaud and tell Him
i don’t like the crap He’s selling.
if He’s good, He’ll listen, i’m sure,
this Gaud u so adore.
Christ!
by Michael R. Burch
If I knew men could be so dumb,
I would never have come!
Now you lie, cheat and steal in my name
and make it a thing of shame.
Did I heal the huge holes in your heart, in your head?
Isn’t it obvious: I’m dead
and unable to repeal what I never said?
Why do faith, hope and love
always end up PUSH and SHOVE?
—Michael R. Burch, lines from "Christ, Jesus!"
limping to the grave under the sentence of death,
should i praise ur LORD? think i’ll save my breath!
—Michael R. Burch
Shadowselves
by Michael R. Burch
In our hearts, knowing
fewer days—and milder—beckon,
how now are we to measure
that wick by which we reckon
the time we have remaining?
We are shadows
spawned by a blue spurt of candlelight.
Darkly, we watch ourselves flicker.
Where shall we go when the flame burns less bright?
When chill night steals our vigor?
Why are we less than ourselves? We are shadows.
Where is the fire of our youth? We grow cold.
Why does our future loom dark? We are old.
And why do we shiver?
In our hearts, seeing
fewer days—and briefer—breaking,
now, even more, we treasure
this brittle leaf-like aching
that tells us we are living.
Evil Cabal
by Michael R. Burch
those who do Evil
do not know why
what they do is wrong
as they spit in ur eye.
nor did Jehovah,
the original Devil,
when he murdered eve,
our lovely rebel.
and then i was made whole
by Michael R. Burch
... and then i was made whole,
but not a thing entire,
glued to a perch
in a gilded church,
strung through with a silver wire ...
singing a little of this and of that,
warbling higher and higher:
a thing wholly dead
till I lifted my head
and spat at the Lord and his choir.
A coming day
by Michael R. Burch
for my mother, due to her hellish religion
There will be a day,
a day when the lightning strikes from a rainbowed mist
when it will be too late, too late for me to say
that I found your faith unblessed.
There will be a day,
a day when the storm clouds gather, ominous,
when it will be too late, too late to put away
this darkness that came between us.
Hellbound
by Michael R. Burch
Mother, it’s dark
and you never did love me
because you put Yahweh and Yeshu
above me.
Did they ever love you
or cling to you? No.
Now Mother, it’s cold
and I fear for my soul.
Mother, they say
you will leave me and go
to some distant “heaven”
I never shall know.
If that’s your choice,
you made it. Not me.
You brought me to life;
will you nail me to the tree?
Christ! Mother, they say
God condemned me to hell.
If the Devil’s your God
then farewell, farewell!
Or if there is Love
in some other dimension,
let’s reconcile there
and forget such cruel detention.
Of Seabound Saints and Promised Lands
by Michael R. Burch
Judas sat on a wretched rock,
his head still sore from Satan’s gnawing.
Then Saint Brendan’s curragh caught his eye,
wildly geeing and hawing.
I’m on parole from Hell today!
Pale Judas cried from his lonely perch.
You’ve fasted forty days, good Saint!
Let this rock by my church,
my baptismal, these icy waves.
O, plead for me now with the One who saves!
Saint Brendan, full of mercy, stood
at the lurching prow of his flimsy bark,
and mightily prayed for the mangy man
whose flesh flashed pale and stark
in that golden moment, beneath a sun
that seemed to halo his tonsured dome.
Then Saint Brendan sailed for the Promised Land
and Saint Judas headed Home.
O, behoove yourself, if ever your can,
of the fervent prayer of a righteous man!
In Dante’s Inferno, Satan gnaws on Judas Iscariot’s head. A curragh is a boat fashioned from wood and ox hides. Saint Brendan of Ireland is the patron saint of sailors and whales. According to legend, he sailed in search of the Promised Land and discovered America centuries before Columbus.
Alien
by Michael R. Burch
for J. S. S., a "Christian" poet who believes in "hell"
On a lonely outpost on Mars
the astronaut practices “speech”
as alien to primates below
as mute stars winking high, out of reach.
And his words fall as bright and as chill
as ice crystals on Kilimanjaro —
far colder than Jesus’s words
over the “fortunate” sparrow.
And I understand how gentle Emily
felt, when all comfort had flown,
gazing into those inhuman eyes,
feeling zero at the bone.
Oh, how can I grok his arctic thought?
For if he is human, I am not.
Oh wow, I’m actually thrilled how much I’m enjoying these, feels like you cracked open a vein I’ve been carrying since childhood and turned it into poetry.
“Ant Farm” hit me straight in the nervous system, that bored, half-competent creator shrugging at his own experiment is exactly the god so many of us were handed: brilliant with power, careless with suffering.
... and “Bible Libel” is just a few words, but it lands like a lifetime’s verdict: if there’s anything good in me, it grew in spite of that god, not because of him.
I’m gonna keep reading and reading like I’ve just walked into a forbidden library with my name on the door.