I suppose I owe this poem to the
lesbian saddle workers,
molding pink umbrella wombs
amidst a bruised black sky,
A rosey handprint,
a fresh slap on the horizon,
I turn my attention to the wet souls,
assuming the role of the
road man,
trekking through a once familiar ground,
sacred-ceremonial,
wolf runs,
offerings of flesh and chase.
wasteland now,
desecrated to erect mausoleums for
suburbanites, socialites, and the
new kings,
breaking earth in the name of plastic souls,
new idols,
honorable metals for vanity,
gluttony,
obscene.
My companion seems impartial,
stumbling over fallen crosses of silver
and no bones.
"need a cross ?",
"no, I havent any obligation",
"you could crucify yourself",
"too small",
"we could crucify infants of the new swine",
"sick fucker",
always the critic, and now finally
the composer.