Our Abbatoir

We wallow in bloody thundering judgement.

We are addicted to condemnation. 

We love to take offense.

Like wolves we howl to the silvery moon.

We hunt down prey with slavering eyes

Slice open jugulars, tear out viscera,

Gorge on livers.

We are happy at the slaughterhouse,

Joyful as the blood drips from our lips. 

We are justified. We hunker down with pride. 

We feast on lights. Then, sated, we lounge,

Maculate mesentery hanging from our jaws.

And slowly with silent serpentine subtlety

We shifts to they and the cankered finger 

Lifts to point outwardly.

Long years ago, immured in Fernay,

Sipping his blood red wine,

And hearing echoes of the still small voice,

Arouet laughs, smiles, shakes his head and 

Declares he knows 

The only hypocrites are those

Who use the word exclusively of others.