6.7.11 (lunchtime)

It was my birthday yesterday so I had to spend a lot of time out drinking lots of lovely latte...and then I had to work because I forgot to get the shift off.  The deadline is midnight tonight Eastern Central Time, eek!

I gathered as much of the old stuff and new bits together and scribbled it down on notepaper, so that is Version 5 and will be clipped to this as poem history and filed somewhere eventually. Now I’m going to type up draft 6 after cutting all the lines that have nothing to do with Fame – which means all the ranting at religion! The new title came to me while I was trying to sleep.

WORSHIPOLOGY

Soak six ounces of legend in wine/ale

add dates and genes, wrap

in a fable. Bake – all hail God

at the table of Myth. Jesus

Lennon and Elvis left the building

God rules that table, fixed like dye

in fabric. Jesus is a peat fire

underground. Shake out your cloth

God, come clean and show us your gold

plate, unveil religion, that flash

of fiction. I recognise you

how you suspend belief

in moveable feasts, offer up

the drug. Worshipping people

work hard, spend lifetimes eating

fairytales, wearing thin excuses

to explain the pain or non-intervention

as horror consumes the world.

Faith and fame are bound, bent

with the weight of fear, impaled

roasted on your hellish flames.

Fans follow, stalk or just chalk

a small phase up to a section

of their lives and move right along.

You serve that pie, cut it into eight

and trail with golden syrup.

 

Now to split it up and understand what I’m saying and what I mean to go where, and then add the rhyming words. Easy! Yeah right.

 

Soak dates, genes and legend in wine/ale.

Wrap in a fable and bake – all hail God

at the table of Myth, fixed like dye

in fabric. Suspend belief

in moveable feasts, offer up

the drug. Serve that pie, cut it into eight

and trail with golden syrup.

 

Jesus, Lennon and Elvis left the building.

Fans follow, stalk or just chalk

a small phase up to a section

of their lives and move right along.

 

Worshipping people

work hard, spend lifetimes eating

fairytales, wearing thin excuses

to explain the pain or non-intervention

as horror consumes the world.

Jesus is a peat fire

underground.

 

Envoi

 

Faith and fame are bound, bent

with the weight of fear, impaled

roasted on your hellish flames.

Shake out your cloth

come clean and show us your gold

plate, unveil religion as a flash

of fiction.

OMG I’ve spent an hour cutting, pasting, moving, shifting, deleting and reading out loud! It’s half the size it was and what is needed…and so it continues. Still got to make sense of what I am saying in this poem – only when I’ve done that can I add more words and the rhymes. At least I’ve split the sense of 3rd Person and the bit that’s directed at Him (can never work out if that is exactly 2nd Person). I might try putting the recipe in the past tense as in ‘(They) soaked dates…’

2pm. I need food. Guess I’m not going out today. Gotta get a handle on this soon.

Once upon a time dates, genes and legend were soaked in wine/ale

wrapped in fables and baked. Suspended belief sold its aroma

in moveable feasts, offered up

the drug as pie, cut into eight

and trailed with golden syrup.

 

In the beginning, once upon a time

dates and legend were soaked in ale

wrapped in fables to suspend

belief, a drug when exhaled

hung on moveable feasts, trailed

like performing cuisine.

Religion, that flash of fiction hailed

God at the table of Myth, serene

 

In the beginning God sat

at the table of Myth, fixed like dye

in fabric.

 

Jesus, Lennon and Elvis left the building.

Fans follow, stalk or just chalk

a small phase up to a section

of their lives and move right along.

 

Worshipping people

work hard, spend lifetimes eating

fairytales, wearing thin excuses

to explain the pain or non-intervention

as horror consumes the world.

Jesus is a peat fire

underground.

 

Envoi

 

Faith and fame are bound, bent

with the weight of fear, impaled

roasted on your hellish flames.

Shake out your cloth

come clean and show us your gold

plate, unveil religion as a flash

of fiction.

 

 

The End

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