Evil isn’t the Devil, Isn’t the psycho, Isn’t the neo-fascist – Evil isn’t our darkest nature, Lurking silent in our midst. For evil is our lazy thinking, Seeking-out a covert plan – And evil is our pointing finger, Evil is our bogeyman.
Evil isn’t the Devil, Isn’t a something, Isn’t an absolute. It’s simply things we hate, writ large – Hyperbole that birthed a brute. For evil triumphs when the good do nothing new, So tropes persist – For the greatest trick the Devil pulled, Was just to not exist.
I say unto you, not just he who kills, Shall go to Hell. But also he who harbours anger, Even for a spell. Call a man a fool, and that’s enough For punishment eternal. Likewise, give your cloak away, Or face the flames infernal. Lust after a women, Even one who welcomes your attention, And that lust is equal to adultery, And Hell-detention. An eye for an eye still stands, But turn the other cheek for free – Then pluck-out your eye and cut-off your hand In macho purity. Blessed are the peacemakers, Unless you break the rules – And then you’ll find no jot or tittle’s peace from God, Ye fools !
Alas, I have been unable to find out any more information about this postcard
Guising
Did people ever really think that spirits roam in late October ? So the safest thing to do was simply blend-in where they tread ? Or that their feeble efforts would fool anyone who’s half-way sober, With no more than sheets and make-believe to raise the dead ?
Was it to fool the spirits ?, or the humans ?, or themselves ? Or a warning to the Church that it was not so at-the-head ? Perhaps the latent superstitions conjured up such elves As an outlet in the face of poverty and mortal dread ?
I think we always knew it was a chance to have some fun, And to dress-up and be mischievous, and stay-up late-of-bed. Even those who still believed in spirits, saw through ev’ryone – But let the children have their fun, and spare a crust of bread.
The word ‘mischievous’ needs to be stressed in its first syllable – MISS-chiv-ous. Some people pronounce it is miss-CHEEV-ee-ous, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with this – except in this case, as then the line won’t scan.
She has the key to my heart – But just what does that mean ? That my love is locked in a box, apart, Unused, still mint, pristine ? Or that my spring needs winding up, Made taut and tense, and set to start ? Or that my keyhole’s cup can sense The subtle slide and gentle shove From her cunning iron dart ? From the only key that’s smart enough To skeletise my love With a twist of her art ?
They come, from out of the pages, Lurching-on for centuries, Reanimated for the ages By the editors and mages Harvesting our cherished memories.
Too valuable to rest in peace, They’re resurrected, forced to dance – But the spark of life is cold within, And nothing but a rictus grin Reminds us of that once and lost romance.
The only way to dine on garlic Ev’ry day or two, Is to only visit friends who dine on garlic Just like you. So lace that bolognese another clove, And stir it in that fry, And then be sure to bring your friends around your stove To have a try. And don’t be so afraid to say très bon When sharing peppy dips – And don’t be shy to relish it when tasted on Another’s lips.
The clocks are haunting Daylight Savings, Goading us to stay in bed – In late October, ancient cravings Rear their bureaucratic head. We skirt with time, we loop the sands, Rewind once more the ancient rite – We must perform the dance of hands Upon the face of waning light.
The past is haunting Daylight Savings, Logic lost to undead rules. In late October, we’re the playthings Of the limbo hour of fools. We flirt with time, yet so habitual, Barely offer an excuse – We must perform the sacred ritual, Stop all Hell from breaking loose.
The trouble with a labyrinth, Is that it feels so foreign – Is that it has no logic To its endless winding paths. No hierarchy separating Avenues from warrens, As we trudge the many mazes On our lost and aching calves.
Our only means of finding out The route into the centre Is by choosing random tracks And by try-and-try-again – With a dozen unsigned junctions And a dozen doors to enter, To a dozen cul-de-sacs, And a single golden lane.
It makes sense in a dungeon, With its safety-at-all-cost, Or even on a garden, Where the mapless lovers sally – But why are city planners Quite so keen to get us lost ? Or to meet a Minotaur Down a twisty, unlit alley…?
Is anything more boring Than another psychopath ? He’s the laziest of monsters, That we’re somehow meant to fear. Just a clichéd bogeyman, Who’s killing for a laugh – Ho-hum, the same old slasher Whom they think we’ll dread or cheer.
Is this another true-live nutter, After fame at any price ? And we’re determined to reward them, Cos we’re really dumb. Or is it just a fantasy Of living through their vice ? Getting all our jollies Till our empathy is numb.
Best be wary Of Dante Alighieri, Whose hellish depiction Is turgid fan-fiction – Trekking round each Circle With Mary-Sue Virgil, While snarking in the sleaze Of revenge fantasies.
Strange how the Church Has bought-up all his merch, And turned this random blogger Into Pope-approved-of dogma. But worst of all, is any fool Who has to labour-through at school, Just hoping for a joke or three Within his so-called Comedy.
No wait, don’t hate, Don’t follow the gate That tells us “Nope, Abandon all hope !” My anger is alive In Circle number Five – But no, I must not dwell In this self-made Hell.
For Hell is more feeble – It’s simply other people With whom we disagree, Like Dante is for me. But to be more analytic, Then Hell is just a critic Complaining for eternity – Don’t let that carping voice be me…