Eris, youíre a terrible child,

Throwing your toys

In violent tantrums

Of whimsy and spite.

You cry in heavenís despite

And churches are reduced

To tabernacles

And a deck of cards

In which the lightning tower

Is always inconsolably struck.


You run delightedly amok

Through carefully cultivated fields,

Sowing a rueful harvest

Of gut-rot, ergot nightmares

And witch-trials

Which weíll never forget.

Your corn-dollies

Are as red as the devil:

A warning against

Our loveless self-absorption.


In this brain-dead, heart-dead

Somnambulist century

The assembly lines churn out

Saccharine packages

Of hopes, dreams and lies.

We consume and are consumed:

Regardless, witless

And without appetite.


But I am not yet dead

And inside me, inside us all,

Is a laughing anti-Christ:

The eternal iconoclast

Who worships at your altar, Eris,

Sacrificing the hallowed

Hollow gods of contentment

At your dark, dirt-stained feet.


In the blood of my bones,

I know you will bring

The whirlwinds

Of sweet destruction

To sing before my fingers:

You will wreak your vengeance

And your vengeance will be mine.


Eris, sweet Eris, hear me!

Take this plastic rubbish,

This comfort, this muffled bell,

This silent eternal night:

Burn it in your hellish pyre,

For Iím sick of this wilful sleep

And wish to visit

Upon my brothers and sisters

A legion of vicious angels

Who burn with ice and fire.


The Lord was never a shepherd,

But a butcher

Who would lay us down

With his bloodless knife.


Eris, you are the strife

That keeps us seeking the apple

Whose sweetness left us bereft:

Without you we would be sheep

Impassively awaiting

A painless, wonderless death.






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