Genetic Faith Edit 2 Leanne, ronsaik

[tectak]

Edit 2


Genetic Faith

Hot blood in hearts
spouts faith and fury;
war in an over-spill, over-kill land.
Where children lose childhood
and all games are real so
let’s play Seek-the-Bullet. The prize
will be virgins; paradise calls you
with faith the blind guide.

Burka your sisters, blank and bewailing,
Sharia shading the shame of tear-fall.
Once others cried, they  carried
their godhead, masked in steel armour
to bring you His word.
No wisp of His smoke
is left in your Kingdom;
yet still you see fire.

Hear now the thunder, history rumbling,
send out your young  into far western lands.
Tell them defeat is glory and honour;
infect what you can, though the body
may die in  this pyrrhic paradox.
A wrong diagnosis, the cells are not cancer,
but strangely a virus
in infidel’s blood.  

The plan was metastasise, move and manoeuvre,
replicate, duplicate, kill from within.
Cruel Cytotoxins  poisoned the host
and poisoned the agents…no quick cure, this.
But from a mixed gene pool, immunity rises;
from competing gods and from faction faith.
Genetic traits must slowly fade
completely away.

But once all the children have killed to god’s quota
and mothers have gathered up cells of their sons,
and the red rain stops falling from haemophile heaven,
and hate, and fear and fraught fairy-tales
will no longer pass from parents  to children;
then all will stand up to witness the death throes,
not of mankind, but of
genetic faith.



tectak



Edit 1

Genetic Faith

Hot blood in hearts breeds faith in fury;
war in over-spill, over-kill land.
Young men are never children here;
all games are real. Play seek-the-fire,
die-to-live, safe in Virgin’s wombs.

Sisters, blank in burka, bedlam
wail, yet praise each death.
Sharia shades the shame of tear-fall;
once others cried, pride in the godhead,
masked  behind His smoke and flame.

Hear the crack and quake of triumph,
but know that only death brings peace.
Defeat is glory to the fallen; a Pyrrhic paradox.
In last recourse, like cancer cells,
they move in blood of infidels.  

The strategy is wisely chosen...
metastasise, fight from within;
Crude cytotoxins kill the patient
so no cure this, unless by time
genetic traits will slowly fade.

Now the boys have killed their quota,
mothers  have gathered cells of sons
that rain down from  prophet's hands.
This is the end...the dying writhing.
Not of mankind, but of blind faith.

Praise be.

tectak


Original

Hot blood in hearts breeds faith in fury;
war in an over-spill, over-kill land.
No young men live for childhood here,
but for the fire that burns them back
into the wombs of virgins.

Their sisters, dark beneath the cloth,
make wails yet praise their brother's deaths;
tears fall in shame into Shariah shade.
Come to this place and meet the godhead,
smell His smoke and see His flame.

Hear the crack and quake of triumph,
but know that only death can save.
Defeat is glory to the fallen; to win, a pyrrhic paradox.
The cancer cells are in the lymph
and in the blood of infidels.

The strategy is wisely chosen...
metastasise, kill from within.
There is no cure, there is no answer.
Cytotoxins kill the body;
belief will loose genetic hold.

All the boys have killed their quota,
mothers have gathered  cells of sons,
raining down from the prophet's hands.
This is the end...the dying writhing.
Not of mankind, but of blind faith. Praise be.

tectak
2015