Who will teach us to scream?
Were is the tenor of terror, who
bellowed Yelps, amplified in the cave
of his hollow heart?
Too long our songs have risen:
happy, clappy, fervent yips
From vanilla soft-serves dipped in
the lust of the eyes
the lust of the flesh
and the boastful pride of life;
From the tops of the charts.
We need your rage, Corban,
your fear full disease, flung,
discharged in horror before
the eyes of Him with Whom
we have to do.
Not that you knew,
Racka, fellow man, object of wrath
and pity. Fool, we need your terror,
but you more needed our silence
to hear the small voice after
the fire burned, after
the storm blew.
Where do bad people go
when they die, K*rt?
Oh! You who know as he now is
take up his scream!
Wail and groan! Be afraid!
Be full of fear and trembling
before you saunter into the
throne room of Elohim.
Who will teach us to scream?
Where is the "doom and gloom"?
Who will paint it black
before the sun breaks through?
We must scream, great big howls
of sin, righteousness, and judgement,
and can our games, for at the end
they will say, "you all knew."
[I wrote this salty bit of doggerel after being fed up with Christian artists attempting to cross over or who just suck. I won't say who in particular, because some of my friends like them. As the poem attempts to say: Where are those people with the passion of Kurt Cobain? Where are the Christians who see the terror of God's Holiness, His wrath, and the imminent destruction that awaits all who sin and have no Savior?]
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