Xanadu it’s not, this perverted
station of the cross ghosted
white with slaughtered innocents
by the Roman alma mater
of Christian soldiers,
marauders hot with Muslim
blood on prayerful vile hands,
hordes who ram and roam
like brain dead soul/
less hoodlums
roughshod over
peeled strips of viscera,
guts spilled forth on earth
ripped and raped,
raped and ripped again,
and shards of incense burned
and blessed
to hide the iron smell
of the dying’s rusted blood
from the trembling’s living hell.
The Vatican’s stately treasure dome,
bloated afloat with castrated pontiffs,
decreed these ends indeed,
scheming in a sour sea
of sunken arrogance, sends its blasphemous
knighted bastards to kill and maim
in the hallowed name of Christ,
one more execrable barbaric
excursion of blackest dankest night
into clawed stripped skin
of stinking carrion,
unscabbed craters of craggy
babbling horrors, piled insane
screaming scrabble to unname
this shattered slender
strip of battered arid ground,
blood-baptized forever more,
the wholly wounded Holy Land.
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