Son of God

Man sits in layers of his own dirty skin for hours on
End, day in, day out of his mind, wrapped up in
Forests of his self-inflicted mental strain; paperwork,
As it’s known. Another day passes as he stands,
Smiles at what he has accomplished, and departs,
Sluggishly moving onwards with his desire for cotton
And linen and nickel and brass. The fuel of life.
Dinner.
His woman plates up a vast mountain of sustenance,
Palatable poisons to gag his tastebuds and choke
The greasy slob of his miserable existence, until he
Succumbs to the ravages of time and industrial fats.
He eats with his family; the mistress and his two
Offspring, all three looking just as delicious as the
Plate before him. He finishes and smashes his dish
As he watches his woman wash and his neighbour
Fornicate through the first floor window, loudly
And all animal-like, almost ferocious.
His blood boils as he throbs.
This man, this creature, so benevolent. A holy
Creation, forged from the bones of the earth,
Perfect in mind, body and spirit,
Moulded in my image.