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The Suicide
Published in the Agnostic Journal London, England 29 September 1906 (pages 205-206)
Our Father
A blushing cheek and a smiling lip, A trusting heart and a yearning soul; From the cup of joy two lovers sip, And pay not the world the lovers' toll; Free without bond, or script, or deed: Then in the bracken by their side They see a stealthy serpent glide, Hissing the Christian creed.
Thy will be done
The thunders roll through the dismal sky, The lightnings flash, his heart doth fail, Trembling he fears the Christian lie, Deserts his love to the howling gale; As night grows dim his love is dead, Upon her lips his kiss hath lied; She, whom he said should be his bride, An outcast he hath made.
Lead us not into temptation
Her lips are dry, her body chill; Around her flit a phantom host Hissing to her temptations ill; Then laughed the Holy Ghost: "Sweetheart, why shiver in the cold? Look—all the streets are paved with gold; The joys of life are manifold Drink, here is Satan's toast."
Forgive us our trespasses
One sip; it cannot do me harm One sip, just one: how chill is night, The cold, grey street is growing warm, Look! it is growing bright— The dismal gas-lights of the street, The pavement all deserted, wet, Into a glowing serpent meet, Satan with jewels set—
Another sip—I am athirst, The fire burns fierce within my throat! "Yea, love," says Christ, the triply curst, "Drink to the Mendic goat."
More drink, more drink, more more, more more; God sneers, and into dark disgrace, Kicked to the street a wretched whore, And spat into her face.
Deliver us from Evil
Baptismal curse of God, O fiery gust! The power of thy rod Is burning lust.
Blood of the dying Christ, O fearful curse! Thy power hath sufficed,— Love's hearse.
Sin of the Holy Ghost, Thou lying word, The hellish host Have heard: Round me they jibbering scud, A reeking throng, Rain blood! O song! Drink madly, drink deep, never sing; Kiss sadly, no sleep ever bring: Rolled in lust, a burning gust Of Fury. Love is dead, bend thy head Demurely. Gold thou sneering bawd; Drink thou shrieking lord; O! Virgin Mother, Thy fair life is whored; There, close above Her, Sits on a golden throne, Heaped o'er man's flesh and bone, To gloat The gilded goat Of lust; O! burning rust Into my heart Thy dart Is thrust! Into my form is crowded, Death's norm o'er-shrouded; Into my brain is crammed, Curled round my feet the waters hiss— Death's kiss. O bridge of sighs! Thy bliss Is this, It cries.
Tottering upon the brink; Past vision, thought, or think, Fall! Hell's furies call, Ha! Ha! They laughed, Ho! Ho! Our craft Doth grow, Go! Go!
Sweet murmuring waters hide My misery; Still waters o'er me glide, I cannot see:
I hear not, my eyes close, Oh! mystic rose; Sweet Death, thy breath It purifies lust's lies; O wisdom of the Wide. Love sighs, Love dies, I rise.
The Kingdom
The Sun creeps over the chilly dawn: A weeping branch from the muddy tide, Caught a body ragged and torn,— The corpse of a luckless suicide. The hair of her head is matted with mud; Her face is battered blue and red; Her eye-balls, starting from her head, Are clotted black with blood.
The Power
'Midst slime on the mud she now doth rest, 'Mongst reed and rush, who weeping hide The naked form of their unasked guest— The corpse of the luckless suicide. The slug and the snail crawl over her cheek: The worms wriggle 'twixt lid and eye; And on her face both grub and fly Their charnel feast do seek.
The Glory
Her lips are rotten, her teeth are bare; The flesh creeps back from the grinning skull: The bone protrudes betwixt brow and hair; Her eyes are sunk in their sockets dull; A fleshless hand grips the frozen weed, As chill and cold as the Christian creed.
Amen
Look! there on the mud by the ebbing tide Lies the corpse of the luckless suicide; And far from out the realms above I hear: "All hail! for God is Love!"
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