Sinking
she rose,
spluttering,
a gem in her hand,
a moment from time
usually lost.
Truth snatched
from the reverie,
just before sleep.
As she slipped off
after a day of infinite choices,
selections, ticking boxes,
it came to her:
she liked her men
strong,
sensitive,
soft,
embossed.
Just like her toilet paper.
Armed with knowledge, now she can rest.
Nice car, Pastor.
What’s the mileage?
Does God drive one like that?
***
I have a solution
to arguments about evolution:
go and feed the poor.
All of you. Yes, you too. Off you go. Shoosh.
***
How many angels dance on the head of a pin?
All of them!
All the time!
Everywhere!
Join in!
***
Brand new Theologica
Theologi – car
Shiny bright
Across the sky it can drag a star
Make day from night
For the toughest labours
of Hercules
Safe for the family
and the Crash of the Titans
Theologica!
(You wouldn’t guess its a hybrid.)
***
Yes, it remains a fact that no matter how often they look in the Holy Book, not a theologian alive can tell me, what does God drive. The only motorbike in the Bible is the Triumph, though.
I posted a poem about ancient astronauts and relationships with fathers here.
And please remember, the portal to all things Joe Chippish is here.
Poetry and Paranoia 