Revelations

Two stereo monoliths
stand for the God Steppa Sound System,
preaching deep
House of the Lord.
Hoodied zealots reach for the rafters,
brothers nod in prayer.

They are not afraid to show us the universe.
On a twenty-foot projector,
we whip through galaxies
at godspeed, zooming
towards Norwich Cathedral.
The spire points straight back.

The preacher is irreverent.
Not one of those crack-pot bozos,
plonkers or dim-wits
who shout from milk crates.
He's half stand-up comic,
half favourite teacher.
In-between jokes, the tannoy crackles
like the eternal flame.
The Lord is still relevant.

The stain glass windows depict Mary with cellulite,
red halos of shame
circle sweat on the messiah's brow.
Suddenly, it's a foam party,
the pulpit is frothing,
bubble tentacles swell through the pews.

Eight-year-olds are on their knees, weeping.
Either it's the divine revelation
or they've just taken the hat off a scab.

Starting in the back row,
sacrifices are being made,
no bread or wine
just chip and pin
from girls with well-conditioned
hair and T-shirts that say: 100% Angel.
Heaven's never been so easy.

We pat our secular pockets,
turn down the offer of an orange crème,
we are too afraid to try it,
our minds are closed,
we live in fear,
we leg it for the back door¦

I'm deep in
with science and logic.
What of the orang-utan?
Me and him have shared a lot,
I'm scared, I'm scared, please¦
Jesus Christ is a¦
Jesus Hugo Christ is a¦
Jesus Christ is a fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking cunt.
You can't make me unafraid!
Stay back you angels!