Easter Tidings Rising - Vic Gamble

the catch-22 is that they issue
terrorist commands in gasping Gaelic
and religion in loose lineage of Latin,
yet not a broth of a man in the pub understands
the lilt of either language.

angry fists crush upon wooden tables
and wild shakes the froth
of Guinness
like gray tiredness of after-party jelly.

outside the spare air is groaning,
but it is only the copper of the storm,
while inside,sun ablaze, the boys are in short shape
for the shortcomings of the revolution.

The Dublin Times
runs a headline on the Pope’s latest decree
of Easter tidings;
bodies, it says,
will rise whole on the day of judiciary judgement
crushing all but daisies before them,
and though I will still have my balls,
and you the heat of your thighs, my love,
there will be no sex in heaven…..
though, he says, this Pope,
we will still be happy,
but somehow I doubt that.
But we will keep an open face
and good mind
for he is not the first Pope to be fallible…..
did not the last one die?

the catch-22 is that I am trained to shoot
who passes upon my own green land,
hidden here in the haze of moon
surviving by the rhythm of my enemies march,
knowing that when I splice his open wound
I shall retch at the sight of his cascading blood…….
perhaps the Pope has a take on that,
somehow I doubt it.

I know he is so busy assuring us
carnal knowledge is taboo in the afterlife
he has forgotten to wonder about
why we needed to die
in the first place.

Vic Gamble