A young man’s eyes burn blue with Nordic fire;
his off-blonde waves hang dirty on his neck.
A hail of screams and drums and riffs flies quick
from speakers black as he fills in the gaps.
“The rage we hear is not confined to run
across raw throats, taut skins, and fingerboards,
but manifests itself in primal love
of him whose side was first bled out with spear.
“Of him whose blood could not atone the sins
of those who slew and raped and burned for him
on ev’ry coast to which they came,” he said,
and claimed, “Some still do violence in his name.”
“Asked why he ate the brain of one fresh Dead,
another said he’d always had a dream
of eating human flesh, and simply thought
the suicide his opportunity.
“One murdered two, three burned a church apiece;
their heaven was all others’ hell on earth,
the pure antitheses of right and good
and only blasphemy was sacrosanct.”
But his fire fades as he concludes the tale,
and apathy displaces savage glee,
for he knows he will never follow these:
his soul belongs to Israel.
