Talking on Derrida, his heirs declare contingency’s extremity

Making to murder further generality

Undertaking shaping cold stochastic funerals,

Make Protean quick-change acts that bite by sleights of hand

Here serve they warrant, in his warren’s labyrinth

Of exits’s entrances; buy new lamps for old

So light your ways; utility’s maze gives what you want

The cordial treasures stream there, thankyou, take your choice

Atomise, cast aside, and shred soiled clothes of yesterdays

Rip them to pieces, turn your faces from their wear,

Made as they were by arian, white, straight, haughty, wrong men;

Nominate deconstruction; a place-word ‘con’ intrude, insert

Put on new outfits, make replacements; sew your own

Exchange apparels, here’s no quarrel; we’re at home

Condone, conform your scrying bones the way you pitch them

Come Calibans, your masters now are all Stephanoes

Derrida never mentions Christ; his thrust, at most, obliquely

Observes the suburbs among Gospel Truth...

...and where in their new ministrations tends their heart of ruth…?

Disciple apostates have made of him their instrument

Their tooth their justice, realigns all rights and titles

The victors are the strong, the field of justice to be won

By a conscious, common, ardency of will to power.

Hangs Christ’s head, mourning, bleeding, waiting, at this selfsame senseless hour

Still wretched, crucified, His selfless Love sustaining scourge;

But yet still round His resurrection rings this headstrong hidebound world

Where still embroiled in old and overweening jockeyings

The wrenchings of intentions fight; can’t spoil His pearl of price