Categories
Poetry Street Art Poetry

Excuse Me, Sir

banksy

 

Excuse me, Sir

But what is the procedure

To peel off religion from my skin?

 

I find no trademarks, no barcodes.

I find no brands, no logos on me,

No palpable evidence of my faith.

 

Birthrights are strange,

For no mother would aspire to leave a tangible mark

Yet, you perceive an invisible permanent tattoo

As if it also traverses the placenta.

 

Sir, could you tell me

Which God created mountains and plains,

Which God designed cells and space,

Which God knew all the arts in the world,

And the skills to be the mightiest,

And if it’s not Zeus, Jesus or Allah,

If it’s not Krishna or Buddha,

We have a shy God, Sir.

 

Sir, even if it is one of them

If by any chance, God was One if not all,

It’s tyranny to command faith due to power

To ensure worship, in spite of his absence,

To instill fear, in spite of good grace,

It’s narcissistic to allow temples and tributes-

I’m not sure I want a tyrant for a God.

 

You seem to know him well, Sir

You seem to worship him and believe,

He has not told me Sir, but I’m sure you’d know

How do I peel off religion from my skin?

Categories
Poetry Street Art Poetry

Taken

Image

Psychedelic spirals on the city walls
Whisper beats and numb chants
Like that non-emotive song in a club
Arms that merge and colors that spin
And edges that blink and disappear
And Boom! I’m in the terrible center!
With whirling waves in my bones
And I am this spiral on the city wall
That goes around but gets nowhere.
And I am this color, this yellow that grins
And meets the green in a minute
While turquoise awaits us at the next bend.
And I am this music that I hear in my head
That the spiral arms DJ in my brain.
And they later ask the Sun to see
The frivolous nature of my identity
And I breathe, starry-eyed and let it all sink in.