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The altar of semblance. Religious ferver, political correctness, and market branded gods.

Our own fantasy in preference to someone else's

She worships at the altar of semblance,
offering her soul as a living sacrifice,
berating herself (and others) for failing to keep its commandments:

Thou shalt be thin
Thou shalt be sexy but mostly unavailable
Thou shalt be fashionable
Thou shalt drive small fast cars
(Thou shalt know the signifance of car registration plates,
to determine just how new and enviable thy neighbour's car is)
Thou shalt know who is in thy top 40 album chart
Thou shalt go on 2 or 3 foreign holidays a year
Thou shalt work for a major corporate
Thou shalt upgrade thy mobile phone on every contract renewal
Thou shalt have a kitchen and bathroom like the ones in the property makeover shows
Thou shalt replace thy lounge suite biannually
Thou shalt smash thy brain out with alcohol Saturday night clubbing, vomit over thy bed and defend thy right to have "a good time", regardless of suffering from thy alcohol related health issues
Thou shalt know the names of all premiership footballers, managers and their wives
Thou shalt shop for clothes that thou shalt wear at most once before selling them for 50p on car boot sales
Whilst doing so, thou shalt accumulate unbearable credit card debts at extortionate interest rates that line the pockets of the wealthiest members of thy society
Thou shalt enjoy Robbie Williams and Take That, every time they have a revival.
Thou shalt consider Posh and Becks to be admirable, and care who wins big brother.
Thou shalt keep up with celebrity gossip, and really believe that it is meaningful.
Thou shalt hope for a way out of thy missery based on the 10 billion to one chance of guessing 6 random numbers, and thou shalt call it Saturday night entertainment.

I wouldn't have minded.
Her skin was too soft and lovely,
her flesh too warm and intoxicating,
her manner too generous, too approachable,
too welcoming, too friendly, too straightforward,
her delight and celebration of simple pleasures,
I could wrap myself up in her loveliness,
and live in her arms forever,
the lick and smell of her,
between her legs,
like tasting god.

Buddhism teaches us to find a balance between the polarities;
I am not gay, but I don't mind the odd homo looking at my crack.
I have no holy book, only a holy idea: love above all else.
Reality above appearance.
Our own fantasy in preference to someone else's.

I wouldn't blow myself up in a crowd of strangers so as to defy
republican oil imperialism.
But I would put up with listening to Robbie Williams sing angels
to someone who I doubt could spot an angel even if he was wearing a halo with "Angel" written on it in flashing neon.
(Time square style) ... I would bare the idolatry of surfaces,
if you would bare my idolatry of you.

There is no way out of the prison.
Fortunately there is another you, that is already set free.
Leave the one that's in prison where she is,
and be the one who is free to worship
a god of your own invention.

Poetry by Andrew Bindon
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Written on 2010-01-31 at 14:34