Calverinic Poem by Andy Brookes

poor carpenters son puts down the plane, begins to speak plainly
spirits taken hold, whiskey in the rye.Chiseling basalt dark nights for an oxidiated soul.
cutting to the bones of contentions, seeing how many cliches can fill a line, so much wood pulp and sawdust

sawing off more than he can chew, spitting out the word. Yes. THE WORD and it was flesh they say, bibliographical.

flesh is but a Carpenters son, dad unknown, who should have been a butcher or a lawyer.

words, only words, they say, but machine gunssplatter, patter, clatter vortices;rumbling splutter forth, bulletin bullets from THE WORD and flaming bonfires burn

wars were fought for words, not just words of justice, there is non he cries in his wilderness; self made of his soul, imprisoned mind hearing in that spectral nightwords THE WORD from bushes burning brightly.

from the rough hewn pine that hangs a man on his consanguineous gallows rusty clout nailed, a bloody end fora Carpenters son.

heaven wept they say.

should have been a poet or a minstrel this man of word THE WORD or won X factor
he had the talent but following the trail of blood it leads to?
the truth, what truth? whose truth? nepotistic fake truth?

THE WORD what is the word is a better question asked.