Love is not the only weapon
 

My family, here, The Temple, home
my hopes, the wings of a dove
it didn't matter
who loved you
as long as you were loved

*
*
*

there was no more escape
there was no more time to dwell
nothing lateral,
nothing below,
not even a hope of hell

all that is left is skyward,
only empty sky and empty lands
neither planes
nor gods
cast shadows on folded hands

They came south to seek Him
and to bring Him their young
no prayers
can be heard
outside a true believer's tongue

If, if by any chance you will make a mistake
to try to come in and take any one of us,
we will not let you,
you will die -
you will have to take anybody over all of our dead bodies!

Love isn't the only weapon.


White Night, Cyanide and Kool-Aid
needing only one generation
now a punchline
no headstone
Love is not the only weapon

977 bodies poisoned by his love
but one shirt-raised, bloated figure
Fearful still
of his own words
Father did not pull his own trigger

978 bodies swelling under the sun
and what no one knows
was how much
Guyanans were paid
to puncture the torsos full of holes

I saw his son on TV the other day
no other explanations given
than he questioned
he had sinned
now times are gone for honest men


Martin Luther King died with love!
Kennedy died talking about something he couldn't even understand,
some kind of generalised love!
And he never even backed it up
and he was shot down
Love isn't the only weapon with which I got to fight with
bullshit!

They were looking for Jesus
but could not find Christ
Love is hell
Love was blind
Love was some inhuman sacrifice

The world up North is still wrong
And down south a ghost town
Love tied
love does bind
Love is not the only weapon

I've got a hell of a lot of weapons to fight!
I got my claws,
I got cutlasses,
I got guns,
I got dynamite,
I got a hell of a lot of fight!
I'll fight!
I'll fight!
I will fight!

Too late to edit, poop. Still working on the cadence.

Revision one
 

My family, here, The Temple, home
my hopes, the wings of a dove
it didn't matter
who loved you
as long as you were loved

*
*
*

there was no more escape
noy any more time to dwell
nothing lateral,
nothing below,
nor a hope of someone else's hell

all that is left is skyward,
but empty skies over empty lands
neither planes
nor gods
cast their shadows on folded hands

We had come South to seek Him
and to raise with Him our young
no prayers
can be heard
over the hiss of a true believer's tongue

If, if by any chance you will make a mistake
to try to come in and take any one of us,
we will not let you,
you will die -
you will have to take anybody over all of our dead bodies!

Love isn't the only weapon.


White Night, Cyanide and red Kool-Aid
needed for distance one generation
now a punchline
no headstone
Love is not the only weapon

977 bodies swallowed poison in November
all but one shirt-raised, bloated figure
Fearful still
of his own words
Our Father did not pull his own trigger

978 bodies swelling under Guyana's sun
and what no one knows
was how much
Guyanans were paid
to puncture the torsos full of holes

I saw His son on TV the other day
no other explanations given
than he questioned
he had sinned
I know times are gone for honest men

Martin Luther King died with love!
Kennedy died talking about something he couldn't even understand,
some kind of generalised love!
And he never even backed it up
and he was shot down
Love isn't the only weapon with which I got to fight with

bullshit!

They were looking for Jesus
but could not find Christ
Love is hell
Love was blind
Love was some inhuman sacrifice

The world up North is still wrong
but down south a ghost town
Love tied
love does bind
Love is not the only weapon

Love was never the option
Love was never our weapon
a handful left
seeking out
Love was another thing we did not question


I've got a hell of a lot of weapons to fight!
I got my claws,
I got cutlasses,
I got guns,
I got dynamite,
I got a hell of a lot of fight!
I'll fight!
I'll fight!

I will fight!

(reads in awe, mouth open, mind reeling)

I can SO relate to this MollyMac. This is why I do not subscribe to an organized, money-based religion, but teach my children to pursue a personal relationship with God.

Thanks for posting this one. Awesome.

Yeah, I heard one of Jones' speeches sampled, then looked into the man. He used to sell pet monkeys dorr to door to fun his faith. Odd. It never struck me that his son was still alive, and Stephan is... he though that his dad was losing it and didn not drink the poison but wante dto go south to talk to him...


But I love Distopias. Real (New Harmony, Fruitlands, Nashoba, Rugby. Oneida....) or fake (Hawhthorne's "the Blithedale Romance")

And Utopian/Comminitarian religion is my current subject of fascination. People's Temple, Heaven's Gate, Branched Dividians.... scary how common teh traits are found in living communities

I like a lot of your imagery, but at times it seems the meter is out of whack, or choppy. I also like your use of "Him" and "His."

Yeah, I am still trying to sort the meter. Thinking that the verse itself should be more structured at the beginning and then losse at the end; and that Jones's words should remain italicised, but should start slighter in the beginning and more overbearing, more prominent in the end.

Jonestown ... what in heaven and hell was missing in their mind or hearts-or what others of faith might have called a soul- that this completed them- or else convinced them that this would make them whole? What of these true believers that would have called their savior a liar when he came clean and honest? Their smiles would widen and eyes would glaze ablaze in that pure faith in a fellow man that would transcend to godhood- if only they would believe.

They would say that their true savior would deny himself as a test of their faith.

They know that all gods begin somewhere.

And no one sins big anymore, there are no big hells these days but what we make for ourselves, and what can be worse than this? Absolutes are preferable to wavering grays these days- were they seeking absolutes?

I remember, I just listened unbelieving to a religion as a child- thinking that everyone in our parish only pretended to believe. We all knew the lines, knew when to kneel and what to say to keep demons at bay. Only recently did it dawn on me that some of them were not acting, not trying to please Father- they bought into it, hook, line, wallet and sinker.

In the Protestant church, I listened to them sing their hymns boldly while I only mouthed the words, never having the bollocks to sing them myself because it was too akin to a nursery rhyme, only nonsensical.

And, when I was older, I wanted to re-write the Psalms, sing them to myself as I imagine Tom Waits might have done it.

I'd rethink the 23rd and feel my belly swell with something like love and a phantom pregnancy, and lower to a gravelly valley and behind me a shadow of death, my shadow my own devil twin attached at an Achille's heel...