The Tired Atheist

By Kate Camp

In my hand I hold a mouse
a golden labrador
and a cat, all the same size.

Yes I assume the mythical plenty of a god
where my eyes look become green hills
red houses, skies necessarily blue.

In Córdoba the smell of shit and orange blossom
TVs await the Pope, that puff of smoke
who knows what they burn to make it black or white.

Of course I don’t want to live apart from God’s grace.
What kind of idiot would force air from their lungs
or retch up water?

No, behold the mismade agonies
of those who attempt to hear with the tongue
or eat with the eyes, forcing crusts of bread under the lids.

Behold the quiet substance of their rooms
the hollow air in the cavities of their bodies
the finity of their lives, tasting like morning

now you tell me, if one knows everything
and one knows nothing
what the f*ck are they going to talk about?

SIGN UP NOW!
Sign up for our poetry club and we'll let you know whenever we launch a new event, competition or service!
Get On The List
SIGN UP NOW!
Sign up for our poetry club and we'll let you know whenever we launch a new event, competition or service!
Get On The List

Dear Black Child - Grace Storm Ad

Dear Black Child - Grace Storm Ad
Dear Black Child - Grace Storm Ad
SIGN UP NOW!
Sign up for our poetry club and we'll let you know whenever we launch a new event, competition or service!
Get On The List
SIGN UP NOW!
Sign up for our poetry club and we'll let you know whenever we launch a new event, competition or service!
Get On The List
LEVEL UP!
Drop your email and we'll send you 25 poetry editing guidelines to help transform your creative writing!
Send It!
LEVEL UP!
Drop your email and we'll send you 25 poetry editing guidelines to help transform your creative writing!
Send It!
Get On The List
We'll let you know whenever we launch a new event, competition or service!
SIGN UP NOW!
Get On The List
We'll let you know whenever we launch a new event, competition or service!
SIGN UP NOW!