Between: No Meeting

He speaks not a word of God
English his only fluent language halts
Being lame, a dialect of no numbers;
A people, and no people, only populations

Whose God is a foolish word to spin, a bummer
Word, that packs no concrete force
No hard content like motorway, or pay-packet
Or classy saloon car

Just what his childish heart sees are the real, real, goods
In a world’s will circumscribed by its toys of pleasure
Holding out as it offers, coaxing on the fray’s achievers
That’s why this lottery Friday gives him such an urgent meaning

Ask him who was it made dazzling the fabled earth
And he says Linux
The Arsenal, and Stella lager beer
On Saturday nights amongst Lethean Elysian Fields
As an ox set loose to graze

His God is a nothing, knows no meaning, holds no meaning
Living his closed down life contains all meaning; meaning
Caught and transported, harboured in a cage
His corse on hand for use serves all its meaning

Believes he thus in liberties, in seizing wrecked weekends
Elsewise he serves his weekday time confined inanely;
Watched, shopped, and clocked-into its lockup; does his stir
And kicks no baulks

That God sees his wants, what are his needs, his daily feeds
Never himself he sees them; only heeds a bunch
Of childish glees which turn the keys on his unreason
As Eloihim immanent ever-ranges at-large all-over


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