CANTO XXXIII (the last one begins here)

Wake up lazybones,
get up, you lump of wisdom gone small,
time for you to make your grand entrance.
Zap them with your eloquence,
insight and decisive reversal of all the rules.
Time you proved you didn’t need water to work on it.
We’re looking up to you.
The Redeemer cometh,
prove you are a mighty mouse.

She was a cross between Gráinne Mhaol and a boa constrictor,
she was loud with mouth,
uninterruptable.
She carried a bag of many bags,
each loaded with memories of slights,
bitter glances, overlookings.
She spoke for half the Universe,
as if she were the whole Universe.
Here was a genuine God,
not some frumpy Goddess
or queen.
Here was a woman who knew she knew it all
without peradventure.

"I am the Alpha and Omega of your phantasies,
we don’t really need you.
If we wanted to, we could birth children
unaided by your masculinity.
We are divinity,
you’re an infinity of consanguinity.
We’ll take over the world
when your verses are all reversed.
Look at you Wotan,
all those stains, egg on your tie,
fat on the shirt we picked for you.

God you’re a mess,
and your hero
he’s a lost projection.

You should have listened to you,
or, better still, stayed stillborn." 

The ALMIGHTY was jelly now,
wobbling and melting,
fit for consoling Himself,
but no one else.
The ALMIGHTY knew the final solution was on the cards:
the only way to avoid the failure of the quest
was to kill the flower he’d grown from seed,
accidentally stop the fruitless effort
to clone the human race of the Irish debris
from the one true gene of a quadruple helix.
It certainly looked as if the Irish were a lost cause
led by Archbishop Martin,
the trickster from the Roman Bath.

The ALMIGHTY plunged a hand inside the garment
on which the Milky Way was fashioned.
He drew out the dice,
the pair that clashed and caused the Big Bang
- He was ready for a second throw. 

(to be continued)