I keep thinking how the monks would find me writhing
in the scribes’ corner, aura shimmering neurons
like a bad trip on Damascus Road, ink bled out on calfskin when
they haul me out
to a death rattle of rosewood beads at the hip as
they whisper to me in-between pirouettes of the cross that
I had the audacity to fail Satan’s test, to let mortal flesh
roll snake eyes on my soul, and finally there’s no more pain
as infallible steel whistles down its just absolution...
...if they only knew that now we find salvation
from devils in white coats
handing out little tablets
swallowed down
like forbidden apples.
No comments:
Post a Comment