Les Pères de l'Eglise, eux, ils connaissaient leur boulot. Ils promettaient le bonheur mais pour l'autre monde.
[Céline, Mea Culpa, 1936].
Call yourself an atheist, surrealist?
Call yourself a raver?
Do us a favour
at the very
while your spirits are merry
yet quite sober & unpissed
do it in remembrance of Péret
do it today
Spit on a priest!
gobbing gofers for a god
who in his (lower) case
never merits CAPS.
Titles being a bourgeois lapse,
our Nameless Abject Concept's
neither here nor there
nor any otherwhere
so, spit right at 'its' face
hanging out in space!
Some ancient with a cloudy beard
foams at the mouth and rains down weird?
Don't relent in any case:
it pleased one playwright to insist
the bastard doesn't exist.
Get on with the show,
let honest phlegm flow!
Summon your oyster, mister,
and you do likewise, sister!
Are you cretins? Are you cattle?
Then let's hear that spittle rattle!
Go on, go gob a priest!
Now god's gone East
(gone gaga, missing, feared deceased)
we'll need extremer deeds not words, at least,
to dump an outworn myth without a function.
Unleash, therefore, your salivary unction
for it's high time to hawk at the religionist.
Respond to the call, let fly at them all!
It won't hurt at all,
so join in the gobfest and spit on a priest!