IDOL
The tongues of the prophets
are swollen, clogged
with the oil of easy living
words unsaid
pile up in hidden corners
as ears are blocked
to the sound of the wind
The idol here is
no wide-eyed calf
immortalised inert in gilt
but a strong-armed man
rising bronzed and potent
from his palatial sunbed
golden shoes on feet of clay
standing in the place of God
Scraps of fast food
sweet and sour
tossed to the crowd
make fertile soil
where dangerous roots take hold
while spellbound preachers
moulded in his image
drill hard and low
for profit
If you believe
the truthteller
still walks
among the lampstands
then hush the noise, listen
and find a voice
before the lights
go out
Mud at the wall 