“Unforced rhythms” says the version we’re allowed to accept now
That the author is dead and we found out
That his heretical words didn’t do any harm
But undid quite a lot—brought forward the Love that book meant
—for some of us
Others hope he rots in hell
Why do we work so hard to protect what we make up?
Was Jesus just another cult leader?
Setting up another thing to keep alive, whatever the cost
—blood and self-abandonment the first in line?
Revolutions like the ones we need are not won with war
Or right doctrine
They revolve around the solution.
Bathing in remembrance of our true inheritance, of a scathing recompense, in a narrative of nonsense
Which can only be very very slow
As it must get to every cell and there are many
And hearts are notoriously well protected
But beat in time, always, to a rhythm that’s unforced