The Smoke of Their Torment Ascendeth Up For Ever and Ever Like Incense to the Nostrils of Jesus

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

Religions’ basso ostinato, drones,

Those undercurrents are of dread.  The sweep

Of melody is unimportant.  Moans

Are ultimate for driving faith.  We weep

And Gods are glad.  They may not really smile

(Since they are Gods) but still they love the bass

The Pope is playing, plomping all the while

Beneath his harmonies which clash with grace.

Each Hades myth and hellfire myth is played

In holy halls to make us bend the knee.

In Greece the gods were not as bad.  They made

Their entrances and exits, but were twee.

  Those gods were twee compared to Satan’s hell.

    Jehovah loves the roasted souls, their smell.

~ Phillip Whidden