cargo cult

i will not buy my own survival
with a bundle of someone else's bones
that's the old cult,
the doomed and flailing priests' untruths,
prostrate before their unclean altar
with their smutty souls like so much smoke.
they burnt everything they touched,
shovelled the earth itself into the furnace,
stole the future from under our noses,
built a runway to nowhere,
and now they stand there, shameless,
demanding sacrifice---
loosing more lies, more smoke,
death-wrapped, death-dealing,
worse than plague,
feeding on fear. there is no hecatomb
they will not require (of others),
foul hands outstretched,
red with blood, slime green from clutching money,
dripping injustice, grasping at straws
to prop up their temple.
to no avail; the earth herself moves
uneasily beneath its weight,
sucked hollow to sustain it,
and no amount of immolation
can turn aside their fall.
not a million sick grandparents,
not our children's future,
not species winking into non-existence,
nothing---nothing can save them.
they will still ask, insist, dragoon, threaten, and take,
but they are done. the temple crumbles even now.
let the flames sputter out, let the ash grow cold,
let the bones be buried.
let this long shambles be dismantled,
and build a thing of grass and trees,
the only green currency we need.