wild grass once flourished where iron beasts

in the hands of tycoons and priests

level and trim and preach and frame

everything perfectly squared, perfectly same

and woe be the skin not white-washed

the chromosomes not boy-washed

the beds not made in binary symmetry

the deeply held beliefs not incubated in hypocrisy

their pulpits ablaze with virile rage

they declare war of the spirit and wage

take-backsies justice and gleefully degrade

point their fingers at their quarry

order parishioners to parade

their companions’ memento mori

until they cry Stockholm and assume blame

for being different, for stepping outside

the perfectly squared, perfectly same

for defying the one true aspartame

christ, hate-washed god of the great divide

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