The suit says times are tight
As it sits at the Starbucks counter,
Picking crumbs of lemon pound cake
Off the loaned white plate. And the donation
Seems unlikely, since times are tight,
So up goes the priest, to his two thousand
Two Volvo, in search of alternate support.
Ek het niks om te gee. Maar as jy kan, asseblief sorg vir my broer.
Banned pulpit words forced through
holy lips, bitter by the degradation of society.
Turning into his sanctuary’s mega-mall lot,
He fumes on the stage, empty on this Saturday,
To be filled by distortion and delay the next morning,
Proclaiming health and wealth, in the prettily presented
Package of a saviour past, to the same suits, he knows,
That don’t have a dollar to spare.
Jy is in my geestelike familie? Dank God!
Sunday morning, he speaks to the droves,
Chummy calls to niceties and good intentions,
Relating to them for the sake of his message,
Whose meaning died with “Let’s try to relate.”
The wireless mic projects the hollow aphorisms
To the animated suits, which are excited by the revolution of it all,
The deterioration of God from the inside out. They hear
The voices of the Third World through podcasts and professional
Graphics, the evangelization of penance by pocket books.
Hoor ons stemme. Ons wil net jou ore.Wees ons verdedigers.Ons vriende.
And Namibia continues to bleed as the Afrikaan voices drift
Into beautiful and spacious skies, vacant of sympathy
Or support. The debilitating Sickness heard
By none by those who’ve responded to Apollo’s
Delphian call, gotten up,