In Mass

And there we grouped up in the masses,
All our friends from all the classes
They prodded us into wooden pews,
The dopey bulls and little ewes,
And there we stood quiet and still,
The oaky smell and winter chill,
And there we cupped the orange fruit,
The candle in the middle chute,
Toothpicks skewered in every way
We crafted in the early day
And there we belted every hymn,
Keeping rigid our tiny limbs,
Singing as loud as we can
From the bottom of the diaphragm,
Not understanding words we spewed
Or what they told us to exclude.
We never questioned the almighty man
Or what the fuck was in our hands.


This is of course about Christingles. Looking back, they’re the strangest thing anyone has come up with. I never asked why we had to have them. Perhaps the norm to a lot of people, but nevertheless they look so alien!

Eternal Return

Well, bless the boy who broke the chain!
Escaped the life of picking grain
Erased the old and putrid stain
Of not living his life.

He drove himself, persisted through
And flew over the oceans blue
Fulfilled the need to start anew
And found himself a wife.

They’ll buy a farm with cows to breed,
Dig up the earth and plant the seeds,
And work until their fingers bleed
To build and grow.

“Now when my son is ripe of age
Controls his life with adult gauge
And asks to leave, to turn a page,
I’ll let him go.”