Slaggurds

Slaggurds bury their heads in baskets of corrupted creeds;

The act drives them, it wears them out to the mouth.

Slaggurds aren’t much wiser in their cataract eyes

than their seven-fold demons babbling sensibly.

And when they meddle in quarrels not their own

they are like those who catch passing winds by the ears.

They are the mad who toss their clothes into dishwashers,

Who go unannounced to each of their flock’s homes

And say to the sheep, “I am your preacher but I’m only joking!”

And come the black of paranoia their fires go out,

And when there is no whispering, their doubts revive.

As they pour petrol on the heated engines of their ire,

Are they quarrelsome with God when borrowing strife.

The words of slaggurds are their delicious morsels;

Sugary, they slide up and down their gullet, god-like.

Like a thick glaze covering earthen pottery

their fervent lips guild parables holy book bespoken;

Slaggurds self-hate, and masked in skid marked undies,

They hanker for the disco floor to make their profits.

When they speak solemnly, they believe themselves out,

For there are seven abominations in their hearts;

One for the power, two for the show, three to get ready,

Four and five for the lies, six and seven, go assemblies go.