all we worship is
slaughter: the slit throat
of the lamb & all that blood.
we could drown in the flood of it.
sometimes we build an ark and float
on a sea of sacrifice, pretend its grace
that briefly buoys us.
our lives are lived in praise
of slaughter, the joy of hot
blood spattered on our banners
or swallowed down like shame
& then, ha, the expectation
of eternal bloodless heaven?
absurdity of absurdities: we drink
it because we like it
& the sounds made
by the dying.
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