Tuesday, November 14, 2023

Still More Poems on "Spirituality": Three Early Irreverent Poems of Mine

 All written in the first decade of the 21st Century, when I started writing in earnest anti-religious poetry, starting Christmas Eve 2004.  I present these as still relevant, irreverent in appropriate ways that really do tackle and bring down religion, and just as timely and as well-done as my later irreligious poetry--GF.


I AM GODZILLA.

I AM GREATER THAN GOD!

by

George Fish

 

I am Godzilla.

I am greater than God!

For one thing,

I have a last name.

Further, I destroy cities,

I don’t just sit on a cloud

for all eternity

and fart.

Moreover, I am greater

than Jesus Christ.

I destroy churches,

I don’t allow them

to do evil

in my name.

So, who am I?

I am Godzilla!

Godzilla!

Godzilla!

Godzilla!

Godzilla,

greater than God.

 


A PRIEST-PEDOPHILE’S SOLILOQUY

by

George Fish

 

After finishing off a bottle

of the sacristy’s

Communion wine,

the Catholic priest opened up

and said exactly

what was on his mind.

“You know,” said he,

“I reflect so strongly,

so positively,

on the words of our

Lord and Savior

Jesus Christ

when he said,

‘Suffer the little children

to come unto me.’

I enjoy being as Jesus

and having the little children

come unto me.

And yes, they do come,

and while they may sometimes

feel they’re made to suffer—”

He became agitated

as he interjected,

“But remember,

they brought

it on themselves,

they asked for it.

They seduced me—”

He calmed down,

smiled, and continued,

“What’s far more important is,

I will come!



MARY IMMACULATE

by

George Fish

 

Mary Immaculate!

Mother of the

Son of God!

Lifelong virgin,

never touched by man.

Schtupped by the Holy Ghost

instead.

Mary Immaculate indeed!

 

But tell me,

Mary Immaculate,

bearer of the Divine Child,

but also woman of the flesh,

precious for it,

vulnerable and easily

taken advantage of

for it,

how did it feel

to be told by

the angel Gabriel

that God had chosen you

to bear his Son

sans the joy of

carnal copulation?

Did you mutter to yourself,

perhaps disgustedly,

“Fuck!  Here I am,

a mere fourteen,

and a virgin too,

and now I’m made pregnant?

God, why the hell

Are you making me

go through this shit?”

Yes indeed,

bearing extraordinarily

the Divine Child!

The Divine Child

come supposedly

to heal

the hurts of

the human flesh,

but

too goody two-shoes

to be born of that flesh

itself

like everybody else.

 

But poet Etheridge Knight

exulted that he was

Born of a Woman,

and even published

a book of poems

honoring it

by having his little book

bear that title.

Bobby Seale

openly,

defiantly

affirmed it

when he wrote,

“Everybody got here

through good old

downhome screwing.”[1]

Yes, yes, indeed!

 

What’s so horribly wrong

with that,

O stern, puritanical

God the Father?

What’s so wrong with that,

O Jesus Goody Two-shoes?

Is

Mary Immaculate

there

to atone for

the supposed sin of Eve,

who did nothing more

than anyone really human

would do,

exercise the mind’s natural curiosity

and thirst for knowledge,

even if,

in naïve innocence,

it should inadvertently

transgress

Big Daddy God,

aristocratic overseer

straight out of a

Tennessee Williams play?

Is that such a crime?

A Hitler, a Stalin, a God,

or a Big Daddy

would think so,

but not a fully human being

exulting in our race’s humanity

and thirst for knowledge

and freedom.

 

And so I celebrate you

for your agony,

Mary Immaculate,

you yourself

Born of a Woman,

you yourself

conceived through the flesh.

Immaculate yourself

in your oh-so-human

agony and sorrow,

watching even your

Divine Son,

Jesus Goody Two-shoes himself,

die cruelly through the flesh

as nothing but

an ordinary criminal.

 

Mary Immaculate!

Schtupped by the Holy Ghost

or not,

deflowered or not

By Arrogant Divine Manipulation,

or just the end-result of

the natural in Man,

I honor and celebrate you!

As I celebrate all

who are Born of a Woman,

all of us

who come to our lives

and our best selves

not through the

Divine ersatz,

but through

becoming fully

human

ourselves.

 

All of us,

naturally,

affirmatively,

Born of a Woman,

and not the mating product

of “virginal”

sexual intercourse

with a mere bird!

 

 

 



[1] Bobby Seale, Seize the Time, Vintage Books, 1970, p. 248.  Seale was a leader of the Black Panther Party.s


Monday, November 13, 2023

Yet More on "Spirituality": My Poetic Communing with the "Spirits"

 Alcoholic, that is.  Here's my poetic take on that--GF



THE SPIRIT RESIDES WITHIN ME

(My Understanding of True Spirituality)

by

George Fish

 

The Spirit resides within me.

I think it’s Jack Daniels.

Or maybe it’s Jim Beam.

Or Beefeaters.

Or possibly Tanqueray.

Or could it be Stolichnaya?

Or Grey Goose?

Or even Old Overholt?

I’ve communed

with so many Spirits

these past few days

I don’t know

which ones remain.

Which ones will stay

for awhile,

and which ones

will go quickly,

or have even already left.

Hell, for all I know

the Spirit within me now

has a flowery demeanor.

Because that Spirit

I now have inside

could well be

Richard’s Wild Irish Rose!

 

 

Sunday, November 12, 2023

More on "Spirituality": My Three Most Favorite Original Irreligious Poems

 One of the ways I positively sublimate my anger at my victimization by Catholicism and by professed Christians (overwhelmingly; though I was also victimized by a religiously observant Jew who I thought was a true friend) is to write irreverent, even blasphemous poetry, poetry I've found out, is also liked by others, has an artistic feel and edge to it, and, as my close friend and fellow ex-Catholic John Triplett notes, is also "theologically correct" while also being sardonic and quite edgy.  Below are my three most favorite original irreligious poems--GF


JESUS CHRIST, JESUS CHRIST!

by

George Fish

 

Really!  Some Son of God,

Savior and Messiah

you are!

Creating Christianity!

Or at least

uncritically lending your name

to this dubious enterprise.

Sheesh!  Your own omniscience

should’ve told you

that was a really bad idea!

Yet you did it anyway.

No wonder you got crucified—

you deserved it!

 


SO I’M SUPPOSED TO BELIEVE

(revised)

by

George Fish

 

that some guy

named Jesus Christ,

who was supposedly

the Son of God,

as well as God himself

in human form,

died of crucifixion

on the cross

to save me from

my sins and thus

enter the Kingdom

of Heaven when I die,

where for all eternity

I will praise God

incessantly,

same as

the people of North Korea

praise their Kim family

leaders—

all because

 a couple of

thousand years earlier,

in a mythical bucolic

place between the

Tigris and the Euphrates rivers,

which is gone now forever

without a trace

(rather like Camelot,

or Atlantis),

a naked young woman,

who didn’t know at the time

she was naked,

ate of a forbidden tree fruit

because she was beguiled

by a talking snake

that stood on its hind legs?

What do you take me for,

an utter rube?

Do you believe I’m

really that stupid?

C’mon, get out of here!

If you’re going to

insult my intelligence

like that,

I want nothing to do

with you at all!



                                                                JESUS IS

                                                            OMNIPOTENT,

                                                            OMNISICIENT,

                                                          AND IMMORTAL

                                                                      by

                                                                George Fish

 

He is the Christ,

the Son of God,

the Savior,

the Messiah.

He can do anything

he wants, even to—

fucking dogs!

And why would he

not want to fuck dogs?

After all, being up there

in heaven for all eternity

must get really boring;

fucking dogs might well be

a welcome diversion from

a steady diet of—

angel pussy!  (But since

all angels are male,

it’s not so much angel pussy

as it is—angel asshole.)

Besides, how do you know

Jesus doesn’t fuck dogs?

You don’t.

And if you say indignantly,

“Jesus would never

fuck dogs!” I can properly

retort, “Who are you

to claim to know the—

Mind of God??”

 

 

 

 

 







Tuesday, November 7, 2023

Mental Health Writings: A Poetic Take on What Is Also "Spirituality"

This poem of mine, my angry screed on the booze-soaked unctuous hypocrite Catholic priest who was my high school principal in the small-town Catholic school where I became the first National Merit Finalist in the school's history, was written originally some time ago, yet, in view of my blog post on "spirituality," takes on a new timeliness.  This priest/principal, who previously to my achieving the National Merit honor, had talked to me only three times prior, and all those times only to reprimand me.  But now, since I was National Merit, he couldn't have enough to do with me!  His unctuous fawning made me feel unclean.  A teacher I had then said this priest was a very shy man who used alcohol to overcome his shyness.  So, my "spiritual" victimization was probably also an alcohol-induced victimization!--GF 


IN UNSENTIMENTAL REMEMBRANCE

(A True Story of a True Priest)

by

George Fish

 

Padre Pop-Tart Jesus!

Holy Priest!

I’m sure you don’t remember me,

you ignored my existence when I was a junior.

You spoke to me just three times then.

each time only to reprimand me.

I’m sure you’ve also forgotten how

I was the first National Merit Finalist

in St. Mary’s history,

and how you oozed on me for that.

Always wanting little chats about my glorious future,

your unctuous fawning on me

making it clear

that it wasn’t my future that mattered.

What really mattered

was your chance to bask in my reflected glory.

 

Padre Fish-on-Friday Anchovy!

Holy Priest!

How I hate you for your oily slime.

You made my National Merit honor

turn into ashes in my mouth.

You showed me how much contempt you really had for me

when you unctuously fawned all over me.

For you saw not the person I was,

you saw not the troubled brainy youth

trying to survive in a world that hated him.

No, you saw only the National Merit honor.

An honor you wanted to aggrandize for yourself.

I was just a pawn in your venal chess game.

You make me want to vomit!

 

Padre Divine Quintessence Pizza!

Holy Priest!

Is there plenty of booze for you now

in that nether world wherever you are?

Is there a stand-up bar in Hades?

Do you still use booze

to cover up

your shyness,

your inauthenticity,

your unctuous insincerity?

Are you still as phony as you were

when you were my high school principal?

Always being sure to be oh-so-so

much on the right side,

the respectable side,

the winning side.

You weren’t one to back losers.

Nosiree!

And I was a loser when I was a junior,

a transfer student with so-so grades,

coming from a school where gangs ruled

and I had to play dumb so I wouldn’t be beaten up.

You were much, much more concerned

with outward appearances and surface gloss.

So you didn’t see me at all

when I was a junior.

But that sure changed when I became a senior!

I’d gotten a new paint job—

one that had “National Merit” written all over it.

Ooh, you loved that!

At last!  Your big chance

to steal some light from my radiant glory.

How much had you been drinking

when you oozed all over me?

More—or less—than when you reprimanded me?

So busy hiding your drinking,

so dishonest,

so unwilling to face up to your problem

and what you really were.

No, you couldn’t do that.

That was too authentic.

So you went on burying your shyness behind booze,

unctuousness and lick-ass fawning.

Not caring at all whom you hurt,

and whose achievement you turned into

cheap and tawdry tinsel.

Not caring at all.

 

Padre Blessed Virgin Spirit-rape!

Holy Priest!

You’ve been dead many, many years.

But you know what?

I still hate you for what you did to me.

Yes, Padre Spirit-rapist,

you still make me want to vomit!