scissored sermon

[novapsyche]

I wrestle with God's Word
all night. I hash over
the contentious parts.

I am an apostle ala Robert Duvall.

Goddamn it, Lord, Ezekiel 6:12?
Is the fragrance of blood
pleasant to thee?

The words are rendered images.
The bush that burns is the dreamscape:
I become the accuser,
the reversal of all that is good
here in this wild wilderness
where man is the hunter of dreams.

The sanguinary censer
smoulders with an unmistakable
scent. Does the firefang
of sanious incense
delight the Omnipresent Olfactory?
I fume.
The lip of the censer of besmirched
with burnt blood.