Catlick Chorch.

Thrown together with more than a nod to the Donagh McDonagh poem: 'Dublin made me' (like as what I did for me leavin'.) Todays poem is a nasty bit of sneering anger. The eccentric spelling of the title is there to suggest the reader puts on their hardest north-dublin working-class accent.

The Catlick Chorch made me,
and no little cult,
With it's proselytising surveys on the street.
or baldy congo-bangers dancing on its pavements,
Or bragging born-agains with megaphone-borne bleats,


Devouring the fractured between them,
snapping the worried sheep back to the pen.
The anorexic, the neurotic, and the weak,
Most wholly: profit shall be born again.



The Catlick Chorch made me,
not something fashionable,
That's all the rage with actor-millionaires,
that advocates the gathering of wealth,
So rich folks can be holy in Bel-air,


Patronising post-colonial 'God-lite',
Might be your drug of choice, it isn't mine.
Or those cute self deceiving hippy-chicks who bend,
And break to the east for a sign.


The soft and dreary Anglicans, with their tame beliefs,
Built on the balls of a horny english king,
The lunatic puritans beating on One book,
One Rule: 'Thou shalt do no such fucking thing'.



I disclaim all the 'come-lately's;— all the splits,
The evil that comes from them and the good.
And Cat-lick doctrine also,


yeah, it's shit.


I'd rid the world of that crap, if I could.