Saint Hate

 

The day he prayed to Saint Hate

was the day he lost his soul,

spat blood on the pavement,

pissed on the homeless,

broke bones for fun.

 

The day he prayed to Saint Hate

he surrendered his humanity,

lit a candle to the little god

who sat upon his shoulder

adding weight to the chip.

 

The day he prayed to Saint Hate

he put on the white hood,

stamped on the black guy,

kicked the little queer,

Set fire to a cross.

 

The day he prayed to Saint Hate

he had a tattoo done on his arm -

a corrupt cross of fascism

inked into his veins

mixing with the bile.

 

The day he prayed to Saint Hate

he declared ‘For God and Country’ -

Meaning his God

and his Country

and his colour.

 

The day he prayed to Saint Hate

he watched the television

searching for a saviour

to rise in righteous anger -

bound for ascension.

 

The day he prayed to Saint Hate

he found what he was looking for -

a twisted, fucked up, mannequin

to legitimise his views…

 

and all his prayers were answered.