Someone has looted my soul

"I heard there was a secret chord
that David played and it pleased the Lord,
but you don't really care for music, do you?
It goes like this: the fourth, the fifth,
the minor fall, the major lift,
the baffled king composing hallelujah."
-- Rufus Wainwright: Hallelujah

It's rare I post twice in any kind of rapid succession.  I'm sorry; I know I'm spamming your lives, those of you who are reading.  The paths of the mind are doubly screwed-up at night time, and goodness knows I don't need any help for that; still, until whichever little demon (metaphorical or literal) is prodding me incessantly decides to leave me alone and let me sleep, these are the kinds of thoughts that happily haunt my head.  I wish them luck.

THE ART OF LOOTING HEAVEN

I sat down, and the first thing that I thought
was that I think in sparks and moments,
and if I swallowed up a firefly
he'd likely find a friend inside my skull.

Don't you ever wonder how it works?
As if to every man the gods gave but
five words of beauty in their lives,
and deep inside our hearts we scrounge and scape
to try and stretch them out across the years;
as if at 3a.m. Almighty God
is spinning decks and playing tunes,
and artists have a pint of poster paint,
illuminating gospels in the rosy hours -
how shallow they lie, our texts; how heretic-bright.

If only Bibles were a conversation
from a holy Muse that men could love;
monologues lie cruel like dust-shrouds on Simoni,
fig leaves crushing David where he stands,
the Psalter scattered to the earth
like poisoned hallelujahs - we are salt,
and if the salt has lost its saltiness
to whom will academic God cry out?
The Song is like a knell,

for we have stolen unawares the key
from Simon's palsied grasp, and even now
the tree of life is stripped and bare,
her leaves the pages of a million books
of frenzied celebration at our skill;
the trump of God resounds, a slow blues scale
in homage

to the art of looting heaven.