The eviction of the false

After the Ascension

and during the Perpetual Feast of Lies

when belief rolls on in crisis

when bread is flesh, when wine is blood,

there comes to it a revisionary man,

who asks the obvious question,

If this is a feast of lies,

Where could he find the festival of truth?

A thousand greasy fingers point this and that-away

in confusing directions splattered

with stale wine and bread.

And he, deeply ashamed

unlocks his anger

and throws stones at the feasting tables,

Since this universal plenum

that represents him vainly,

will be eating rocks instead.