Sins And Overloaded Mattresses


There is a butcher in the City Of God,
Quiet like –
the strong, silent type.
A soiled apron,
the color of midnight moths
with crimson stains turned ecru,
hangs close
to the wooden block.
He makes Confessesions to
the hollow carcasses,
and maps his hopes
on blood lined butcher paper.
In the evenings St Augustine
drops in, always wearing a
ratty bathrobe,
always droning on and on
about original sin.

The bartender next door
wears a thorny crown,
whispers vespers as he pours
drinks, dark as coffee
and ominous as the River Styx.
There is no history,
only nauseating nostalgia
as he mixes, and serves
his mystic swill
to veiled widows
in a melancholy China Blue.

The street peddler
thinks he is one of the Illuminati,
a chosen one,
though he likes
to kick innocent kittens
to see how far they fly.
The two… Compete for the same food,
the same holey socks.
He trembles in his reverie,
plumes of whiskey fumes
emanate from his mouth
as he delivers
the word of God.
An ecclesiastical anomaly.
A lucid horror show.

Our bellies are distended,
like ticks, bloated with fresh blood.
We dance to silence,
reeling and tripping,
an orgy of the uncoordinated.
Our secrets and shame,
spewed on the ledgers
of overloaded mattresses
haunt us, and
taunt us,
like the ever incessant rustling of leaves…
A constant reminder
of our secret misdeeds.
Photographer: Unknown 



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