Wholly Holey Holy Poem by Andy Brookes

shall we dust of the icons, take them down from the shelf and sing Glorias
the hanging man weeps blood, for this I died he says through stitched lips
thorny temple trickles, three in one, one in three and the show goes on,
flexes tongue twisters ethereal musing but he is dumb and the band plays on

priests mouthed flowery platitudes, out of key organ a counter point.
man nailed to the tree seemed to weep, cannot remember the reason he is here
an angel wing brushes his face and carries his soul heaven wards

Incensed by the choking incense, mummery of the ritual its meaning lost
the congregation's longing to be free, out in Gods clean air, priest mumbled on, religion by rote, flashy robes and flesh eating
his seeming God given right to forgive our sins dishing out his mea clulpa and rosary rounds

blind to the inattention of his flock, he accelerates to a fast conclusion;
longing to forget the flummery and lose himself, in an orgy of habitual prayer and whiskey fumes and self flagellation

absolved of sin for yet another week, trailing home at snails pace wondering,
not for the first time, was my time wholly wasted?
yet paradoxically feeling a little less sinful and more holy.