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A Pastoral Elegy
You, Spirit Who spoke from the bush’s fire,
I now invoke the weight of Your Presence:
please attain Your aims by lines You Inspire!
Hear this poor blind wretch who needs Your presents!
Was Nimrod killed in one of his chases
then deified and worshiped as Tammuz,
an incarnation of Nature’s phases?
The ancients knew Eve’s Seed would bear a bruise,
inflicted while crushing the Serpent’s head.
This is the oldest prophecy on earth.
Bruises heal, like a man raised from the dead.
Wise men knew this, and expected His birth.
Babel’s scarlet harlot knew it too and
played a mock Mary with her son, Nimrod,
in days when Job’d damn men who kissed their hand,1
being enticed to praise the sun as a god.
How could the hero-hunter’s memory
be kept safe from a Flood’s devastation?
By the exaltation of his glory
up to a waterproof constellation.
So, in ancient Babylon’s rich city,
secret rites sprang up, revealed by degrees;
a mystery school of iniquity
which enslaves every student that it “frees.”
Scyphomancy with its gold cup foretells
an irresistible new world order,
filled with sex, saint’s blood, and all earthly hells,
a witch’s sabbath world, with Queen Disorder.
When one is drunk on that foul golden cup
on the basest lusts one begins to glut,
then suddenly down is confused with up
and the serpent wears the crown of God, but
the snake Satan swallowed the universe
and committed suicide in the act;
Nehushtan-Christ swallowed snake Satan’s curse:
In this mystery play, the sun does act.
In this prophetic drama, the sun dies;
Nehushtan-Christ sheds and renews His skin.
Now, as His memorial, it does rise!
Now, when we reach our end, we may begin!
In the predatory night, let us swoon
rather than dread, knowing we have reasons
to find hope in the cycles of the moon,
to read the Gospel in Nature’s seasons.
Death was our shepherd that died by snake bite.
Like Egypt’s wizard’s snakes versus Moses,
Nehushtan-Christ swallowed death in a fight.
To mourn the risen Christ is psychosis.
Let us mourn those Hebrews, Hebrew by blood,
who think Christ is Baal, Tammuz, Osiris.
We pray that Christ will spit and make some mud
and apply it to their clouded iris,
for we live in God’s Cosmos not chaos,
and, seeing the Jews prove to love drama,
why not replace their vain gain with the loss
of the main cause of their people’s trauma?
Those who won’t have the snake that sheds its skin
be for their straying souls the Chief Bishop,
will be coiled around, crushed in their sin,
by the self-swallowed snake, without hiccup.
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NEW PURITAN 