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Bones, beneath the skin of metaphor,

all pleasure now unmemoried,

long past the dark declivities of shame

when flesh has turned to dust,

I have to pick with you.


What, on earth or elsewhere, when,

in impish indolence or mean intent,

with, we surmise, complacent gesture,

you composed your grand design,

were you, divine one, thinking of?


It’s not our praise which by tradition is,

of all that we might give,

the thing you prize most high

but, given our intolerable predicament,

forgiveness you should yearn.


You must have known, when you made ‘when’,

and ‘now’ and ‘then’, that time condemned

each living thing to an inexorable,

indifferent, hopeless war

with age, decline, decay.


Was ‘if’ the product of malign intent

or idle curiosity, to see, while you

relieved the boredom that from

omniscience I assume ensues,

what hope might make us think and do?


It’s just not, given what

omnipotence makes possible,

creation of a universe of infinite proportions,

which you with boundless profligacy it seems

left almost empty, worthy of a God.


Nor is it worthy to conceal your purpose

and the meaning of it all

in an elaborate disjunction

at arbitrary intervals delivered randomly

of half sent messages and deeply obscure truths.


Of evil in the world less said the better:

we might accept man’s wickedness slipped through 

the gate beneath the skirts of choice

but surely you alone must take, for sickness

and all nature’s fits of rage, the blame.


Of course there’s much that’s good -

but not enough.  So pick, that we,

deeply unhappy with your management,

may understand, out of the gripes of everyone,

before all turns to dust, the bones.




“While you fret

don’t forget,

I alone

thought to put

mind in matter,

love in life,

flesh on bone.


“I’m the power

and the glory:

that’s it,

end of story.”

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