we must appear to them
as oncoming balls of devouring flame
as
small stains above
which explode and spread
and turn the sky to ink
we must stink
so bad to them
that the insides of their skulls
burn
and roar
the sound of our footsteps
the rustle of plastic
as we move towards them in blackness
must
turn their hearts to tumbling ice
and turn
their warm blood to ooze
our cleanliness
is their terror
our cures
their wars
children skinless and screaming
in napalm
in phosphorus
or plague
we make them reach to us
through bars
and blind them and cripple them and rob them
of speech
so they cannot tell us what we already know –
that we love
to murder ourselves
that we look forward eagerly
to raping our babies
That we adore wallowing
In quags of our own making
that we eat our own shit
with relish
say they make a religion
how does it feel to be Satan
.
Niall Griffiths
Picture Nick Victor
.