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Heretical Expectorate

Elasticated static spans and snaps. How do you love
what you do fear. From sunblind spots
    behind the bluff, electrocuting angels open fire:
the squiggler in the gulch gets shot.

     It crackles and it spits:
a living coal in fire, a voodoo gob, a soul outlaw,
    animate gist, a spirit of heretical expectorate
got spat. It sizzled on the hob. It frazzles
    like a hair on fire, expiring
as a thingum on a pyre: so white, so fair,
so wasted by their higher fire-power.

It speaks its last, that I was in their sight.
They held their finger on the trigger and they pressed it tight
and I was dazzled by the light. And so they shot
that verminous and spiky sprite. They caught it
in a flinch of pure fright, and now it's not,
but all the same the sun burns still
    bar cloud and night.

What remains of the thing that is not has now got
    binned in a box. It is remembered for its
holly-leaf-like smacks and smashing glass effects,
and by the tales: how it spat back, how it took knocks
and how it turns to spring from trash among rejects.

Will it not come to life? It does look
somewhat mournful, greening on a stump of stone
like so much moss in some light sunny rain-spot.
It gets cross, irated, scornful of its death and suchlike loss.
My guess is yes, it either lets genetics take its habits
as it learns, or simple jumps to life in spite.
    It gets a horn full on the head and grows
from tininess a tool, a tail, from which it
gives a toss. And in the bliss of this it goes heretical,
    hallucinate, utterly bright.