I saw you last Sunday,
Shoulders propped against
An airless window,
Buttocks smashed atop
A wobbly bench,
Hands damp and renegade,
Clutching onto a bible—
The bible that always had that
Uncanny air of aloofness—

You appeared absorbed in
The theatre of redemption
Playing on the preacher’s
Reddish tongue—the preacher
You could not have seen
With those eyes glinting with rapture—

Gazing at the Far West
Where only dead stars go,
Where the Messiah
Has returned and with him
Our prophecy and our lust
Leaving us to nibble on finger nails
Until the merry funeral of our infernal future.

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