Wild Weekends and Unholy Holidays

“Haul your mother into court. Accuse her! She’s no longer my wife. I’m no longer her husband. Tell her to quit dressing like a whore, displaying her breasts for sale. If she refuses, I’ll rip off her clothes and expose her, naked as a newborn. I’ll turn her skin into dried-out leather, her body into a badlands landscape, a rack of bones in the desert. I’ll have nothing to do with her children, born one and all in a whorehouse. Face it: Your mother’s been a whore, bringing bastard children into the world. She said, ‘I’m off to see my lovers! They’ll wine and dine me, Dress and caress me, perfume and adorn me!’ But I’ll fix her: I’ll dump her in a field of thistles, then lose her in a dead-end alley. She’ll go on the hunt for her lovers but not bring down a single one. She’ll look high and low but won’t find a one. Then she’ll say, ‘I’m going back to my husband, the one I started out with. That was a better life by far than this one.’ She didn’t know that it was I all along who wined and dined and adorned her, That I was the one who dressed her up in the big-city fashions and jewelry that she wasted on wild Baal-orgies. I’m about to bring her up short: No more wining and dining! Silk lingerie and gowns are a thing of the past. I’ll expose her genitals to the public. All her fly-by-night lovers will be helpless to help her. Party time is over. I’m calling a halt to the whole business, her wild weekends and unholy holidays. I’ll wreck her sumptuous gardens and ornamental fountains, of which she bragged, ‘Whoring paid for all this!’ They will soon be dumping grounds for garbage, feeding grounds for stray dogs and cats. I’ll make her pay for her indulgence in promiscuous religion— all that sensuous Baal worship And all the promiscuous sex that went with it, stalking her lovers, dressed to kill, And not a thought for me.” God’s Message!

“On the very same day, I’ll answer”—this is God’s Message— “I’ll answer the sky, sky will answer earth, Earth will answer grain and wine and olive oil, and they’ll all answer Jezreel. I’ll plant her in the good earth. I’ll have mercy on No-Mercy. I’ll say to Nobody, ‘You’re my dear Somebody,’ and he’ll say ‘You’re my God!’”

They Make a Picnic Out of Religion

“Wine and whiskey leave my people in a stupor. They ask questions of a dead tree, expect answers from a sturdy walking stick. Drunk on sex, they can’t find their way home. They’ve replaced their God with their genitals. They worship on the tops of mountains, make a picnic out of religion. Under the oaks and elms on the hills they stretch out and take it easy. Before you know it, your daughters are whores and the wives of your sons are sleeping around. But I’m not going after your whoring daughters or the adulterous wives of your sons. It’s the men who pick up the whores that I’m after, the men who worship at the holy whorehouses— a stupid people, ruined by whores! * * *

“They entertain the king with their evil circus, delight the princes with their acrobatic lies. They’re a bunch of overheated adulterers, like an oven that holds its heat From the kneading of the dough to the rising of the bread. On the royal holiday the princes get drunk on wine and the frenzy of the mocking mob. They’re like wood stoves, red-hot with lust. Through the night their passion is banked; in the morning it blazes up, flames hungrily licking. Murderous and volcanic, they incinerate their rulers. Their kings fall one by one, and no one pays any attention to me.