Ungodly Psalms: Minor Prophecy of Joseph during the Reign of Benjamin

(dated ca. 5784–85, or 2023–24 of the Common Era)

Editor's note: this is the fourth part in the ongoing poetry series "Ungodly Psalms" by Joe Grim Feinberg. See part 1, part 2, and part 3.

The sun rises black, 
the day rains lead,
but the night is lit with fire.
The howling Lord of Hosts won’t hear 
the hails of peace,
his ears are shot 
and broken.
What good are all your mitzvahs 
when you slither and hiss between them?
The shine of your city, we see, 
comes from the pupils of red-eyed fiends,
a covenant of miscreants become
a burning fascicle of thieves.
You march toward enemies, you think,
but your boots sink 
down to the pits of Sheol rejoicing 
at your coming,
you chase the enemy,
you think,
you drive him down below,
you think,
the worms themselves will flee, you think,
but there is no enemy,
you march down your own path
alone,
greeted only by worms.
Above,
the masters of surveillance
can’t see the orphans or the parents, 
their cameras are pointed 
into their own behinds.

You think the enemy
is writhing in pangs of death,
but those are birth travails,
it’s you who writhe inside,
you drained your soul like you drained swamps,
and only desert then remained
You think you make 
a desolation of the earth,
but you yourself dissolve.
You think you win 
by making people scarcer
than fine gold,
but every piece destroyed 
just makes the price go up,
life once cost only a bullet, 
then it cost an army, 
then the price was one whole people,
and still you pay and pay.

Nations disassemble
in your mountains
and in the plains below,
and you, grand disassembler
unmake yourself.
When you made yourself a nation,
the oracles against the nations 
came to you.

Glory of kingdoms,
joy of tourist folk,
proud dancer on the missile fire,
singer of startup hymns,
you’ll soon be overturned 
like Babylon.
Magpies 
will flutter through the mansions,
satyrs 
leap over the highways,
lions 
break down all the checkpoints.
Jackals already 
have overrun the castle,
and the pleasure pits breath dragon fire
from their cracking screens.

An uproar sounded from the dead 
who will not return,
not even at the end of days,
because there will be no end of days,
because, maybe, 
they’re already past their end, 
but nobody knew.

Do the worms and maggots crawl still,
do the waters on the beach still pound,
the pines and cedars rise above the bombs?
Are cities there
still lying under ruins?
Let it be the earth 
that howls 
now and shakes 
until its buried cities 
rise up from the sand.