Suit of Lights

While Nat King Cole sings ‘Welcome to My World’,
You request some song you hate, you sentimental fool.
But it’s the force of habit: if it moves, then you fuck it
If it doesn’t move, you stab it.

Sometimes—oftentimes—it seems like Born Agains only do it so they have license to behave like children again for a little while: when sexual scandal rocks them and threatens to end their righteous reigns of insipid indignation, it’s as if the new-child has hit a new-puberty.

Acting responsibly, speaking responsibly, offering up good will and respect to others are all the domain of adulthood; we can’t have that, can we?

So rather than weather the storm, instead of choosing to proceed on to adulthood, they go for—you guessed it—being Born Again!

Another go-‘round of childishness, churlishness, name-calling. Another go-‘round of living a pre-lingual existence where the only notion of truth comes in the incessant and annoying repetition of the same set of clicks and grunts: the more the same pattern of gutterals repeats, the truer it must be. Or standing in judgment with <sarcasm>apposite</sarcasm&gt display of righteous indignation about someone else’s lack of humility.

And they pulled him out of the cold, cold ground<br/> And they pulled him out of the cold, cold ground<br/> And they pulled him out of the cold, cold ground<br/> And they put him in a Suit of Lights

There is no creative act, only creationism; there’s nothing new under the sun and that bristles: where is Father God? Why can’t He just come down here “again” and show these moral relativists [whatever those are] that He Exists, He Is, and He Is Who Is and settle this, ferchrissakes?

The same old same-old will have to do, the same failure of the imagination produces only still-births, the same overweening, over-preening dogmatism prays for normalcy and for the nothing-special.

There is no sense of the New, only the Rehashed, Reborn, Retreaded. There is no Art or Inspiration; only Ritual and Fervor.

Outside they’re painting tar on somebody<br/> It’s the closest to a work of art<br/> That they will ever be.

- Words & Music by D.P.A. MacManus