Progression will not be found in the holy, the holy,
the holy nothing will be found in the holy
as we are holy, as we decry the soul is a fingertip of the holy,
the holy is not the soul, the soul is man and woman and base and growing and shrivelling and a rotten petal of a flickering flower that knows nothing of eternity but every single second; a torture chamber.

You will not win a physical war with thought, holy,
you will not win a thought war with physical weapons like an AK47 or stone
or the bone-grinding teeth of Nitghenga; blazing single-headed holy Cerberus.

You will not find peace in the grave, holy, or the ceremony or the office chair that leans in that perfect manner.

I will never find peace in absolute freedom which stinks of sugar
and sets my holy blood crackling with the same oxygen that hangs in the Scottish night of my dreams.

She will never find happiness when she is fat and a size 12 and holy and her lips form a perpetual snarl of a smile.

He will never find joy in his stepson’s holy fiancé,
in his holy blood pressure whiskey or his foreign trips that glitter
with upturned HUVs and burlap sacks of twitching fish without a Latin name.


If my skin is holy
I will tear it out.

If my blood is holy
I will boil it until the fumes of God are dispersed in the air.

If my eyes are holy
I will blind them with black-iron devil brands.

If my balls are holy
I will cut them with glass knives.

If my feet are holy
I will crawl until the saintliness rots.

If this hands be holy
I will write until my fingers cannot type,
or hold a pen
or feel the wounds of thought
upon my saintly skin.