When God is the unconditional cause of all reality It is on the condition that reality is the expression of God, For there to be a first cause. And eternity, portrayed as divine, is the final escape from a troubled world; From a suspended Earth, mysteriously cast in a lifeless void.

On a bare hill is raised a loudspeaker on a stand And behind it is a masked person Who’ll summon a mighty team to execute his anger, These proudly exulted ones whose sounds of tumult are the shifting mountains as of a great multitude of rolling stones, their sound is an uproar of dead kingdoms, of competing football teams gathered together. The masked person, self-proclaimed Bard of verses is mustering a mighty host for battle. They come from distant imaginations, from the ends of universes and pearls, this Bard and the weapons of his indignation, to destroy the wasted lands below, Hail, for the day of this angry Bard is near; as destruction is a going to come and hard! Therefore all brains will be feeble, and every wasted thing will melt They will be dismayed: pangs and agony will seize them; they will be in anguish like an incontinent urinater, They will look aghast at one another; their faces will be aflame. Behold, the day of the angry ...

If logged trees fall to earth just as glad As when they upheld the keys to the sky They, like lungs, are quite exceptional   For a newspaper lying upon a table flat Exception has none of that powerful ring It’s the contradiction that fears the truth   And words are there, bold typed on a page Honest as the writer pinged for a gander   At felled trees lying about, not like waste   At the back of a tree plantation’s car park From where the lobbyists speak in secret They had drunk to the health of the rip saw   Add sweaty pirates returned from logging This afternoon blocked a greenie flirtation If only the underlife had hung around   And tree rings are as important to the mind As the discomfort that had left it Somewhere, something is exceptionally sad.

They warmed each other as brethren safe in this house blessed by their lord, their talk was solemn, and they lightened hardships by praying and playing Twister and recycling memories of policies they always loved. Each subsequently died and sober Republicans try remembering them for they are veterans too easily forgotten, and this house lives for them. Beyond their death recriminations spook this crumbling house feared back then by the red hand of unknown terrorists whose martyr’s blood could have been its new texture and not the blue of Democratic settlers who occupy it now. Still the neighbourhood talk of those three defiant men who lounged in the Sarcophagus, often haunted by the footsteps of their historical failures indecent as the floorboards crake; alive in the hours past midnight. They resonate the Big Three: Dubya, Chains and La Rhumba; wise men querying the outside world heavy with power that hung on their shoulders like old creepers over a broken ...

And it was felt by a nation, a shark’s chomp on a swimmer’s leg. And as he bleeds, the nation slowly withers,   For fear lives best in damaged bodies:   And as leisured minds struggle with the horror The call went out for the shark’s demise. And the search for the criminal predator is on for days, No sandbar was left unturned; no wave was left unspeared, But some sharks were, And the sharks swam in packs, curious but wary. The media remained on red alert, But the one, a great white, was not to be found And the search came to its disappointing end.   The swimmer recovered from the bite to his thigh And the nation was relieved, and got on with life. It is more probable to be bus whacked than be eaten by a shark Some said; And if one wades into murky waters at dawn, trouble is aroused Experts said; Shark nets are the beach citizen’s best protection, others said. Those who play, people say, must respect the way Sharks rule from the de...

When Jesus was trying to make it right for me I made a miscalculated detour unfortunately Onto a one way freeway of perpetual misery And I’m driving my red horned Cadillac Listening to Elvis and Carl Perkins on the radio And I got my red sunglasses to cut down the glare Because I’m about to bemoan my worldly troubles Luckily I have a billion barrels to burn My Caddy’s on a three hundred thousand service I hope the transmission fluid stays real moist And I curse my ex-wife for crooking me And my boss for cold watering my great ideas I still feel Mr Authority works the inside of me C’mon Jesus can you make it right for me.   Empty fried chicken cartons fill the back seat No need to answer the two calls of nature But it’s thirsty work retrospectively driving on Trying to out-drive this highway of deep regret No CHIPS on bikes can flag me down Nor would they care for my deepest troubles I’ve left my baby back in Redemption Town And my paren...