Fortunes and fishermen
drowning in helium.

We should be priority
but we’re
wings clipped
put behind bars as if
the sky has been ripped
from our grasp
and remains only a memory
in the aviary.

The word was boss,
top dollar diving
then hung on the cross
the word was still boss.

Along came porno in pictures
the new pixels they sell us as scriptures,
nobody bothered to read
they just looked.

They’ll celebrate revelations
besotted with their demonstrations
of faith.

But christ’s on the freeway
doing eighty and
there’s no way that he’s
coming back.

Fortunes and fishermen who
hold tight to the talisman
It’ll be alright.

© 2018, John Smallshaw.