Heresy

Jesus Christ was killed again
Before the bible was ever written
When Rome adopted the faith of slaves
And made it a tool of oppression

Religious freedom died as well
Before they made the Liberty Bell
When Capital became supreme
Our spirits bound to earth and hell

Salvation may as well exist
In dollar bills and banquets
Where we pretend we still hear God
As we suck its bloody wrists

Apacalypses come and go
We haven't gone to heaven though
Maybe if we just keep pushing
We'll finally break the world enough

Or rather than pursue our death
We might stumble on some path
That reawakens something deep
Enough to bury our troubled past

If there's any light to see
Outside our Christianity
The source is unbenownst
But somehow tangible to me

Jesus Christ can rest in peace
All God's children take a piece
To share without the threat of force
Or Hell when we're deceased. 

Pleasant Springs

I don’t know why,

But cruelty always lived in that town.

Maybe it was in the water,

Regularly dosing the inhabitants

As it was swallowed every day.

Perhaps it was under the influence

Of some madness inducing parasite,

Indifferent to it’s casualties.

Or maybe it was cursed

By the remnant of some spirit,

Exercising wrath against the living.

Or maybe it was just cruel.

All I know,

Is that it was hardly innocent.

Behind the pleasant persona

Of a quaint woodland town

Lurked a sea of illness,

Brutallity, and active hate.

To walk the streets

Was to be exposed

To those who stalk the weak

For hardly any cause at all.

Stories of random beatings,

Robberies, and rape

Would circulate so often

To be an ever-present rule.

The law,

The real law evident to all,

Was the Melian Dialogue.

Never spoken, but even so,

Obvious to all who saw.

Small town America,

Christianity and moral life,

Those superfical platitudes applied

So heavily to disguise

The ever-present disscordance

Dancing before their eyes.

The same persons clamoring

For prayers in church gatherings

Walk out continuing

To prey on one another.

Maybe it’s the water,

Some parastie, or spirit.

Maybe it’s a culture

Of sickness they inherit.

I don’t know

What caused the place

To be the way it is,

But cruelty lives there

Nestled deep

And all do as it bids.