ENOCH 1: 1-19
The end is Horror:
Mountains melt in slides of lava and mud;
The globe flares sheer fire.
So much blood will flood the Earth,
it’ll tilt back,
wobbling on its axis.
Monarchs, millionaires, military monsters,
will be penned in a valley brimmed—
They’ll be banded with iron fetters so tight,
the metal itself will bleed.
Next, they’ll face hurled stones
battering em to puddings.
Satan’s fine-tooled these torture implements.
That’s dandy, for these men were his henchmen,
his prime ministers,
his dud-messiahs producing trick miracles.
Rocks striking them, then heaping at their feet,
crush these malefactors,
or they are driven into the volcanic fire
ringing their prison,
to burn, howling, until their throats turn to ash.
Their pain will be so ugly that even God will say,
“This genocide is awful.”
But their chastisements cannot end
until each terror has been expressed
to the exact, dictated letter,
down to the complete number of offenders.
See? Their evil stinks too bad.
They poison the air, disrupting perfume.
They do too many abominations to forgive.
So, God must stone em with rocks sabre-edged
or hammer-blunt, but steadily malicious.
Or God excites the wicked to slay each other
in an interminable extermination.
I, Enoch—the Ethiope, wield an ice-cold voice,
but yield branding, scorching prophecy.
Shit! I tell you, even luminaries—
stars and starlets—
will be burned and/or crushed and/or slain
in mutual massacres.
Their world reeks of carnality,
and they commit every species of crime.
But the Lord is holy, holy, holy,
and those who love Him must be holy too—
or else doomed, dead, and damned….
[Montréal (Québec) 14 juin mmxii]
George Elliott Clarke‘s newest book of poetry is Red (Gaspereau Press, 2011). “Enoch” is from an epic-in-progress, “Canticles.” Clarke has won awards, sure, but more importantly, he is readable. He’s from Nova Scotia, but lives in Toronto.