What say ye?
Shall we do belly shots
of tequila from the corpse
of this whore? Shower her
with grand gestures of aged
hipster bliss clinging to promiscuous
deities with hymns for the dead
and an alternate path
to the off-ramp of hope?
Shall the cursed girl be called
poiema? Cantus epistoleria?
Confession, obsession, repression
retention; how shall we come to thee?
In collaborative prose
of an unholy union
slender as an ink-stained
hangman's rope?
The tip of the trowel lay
denuded of paint
bright as a spearpoint
slicing the earth into
half-mile furrows
of placental agreement
with growth and decay
like a firm afterbirth.
Just a slob like one of us?
What if God were merciless?
His ledger left us penniless
as the script in which we trust.
Perhaps the penitent man
shall pass, blackmailed by his faith
absolved of the carnivore glance
of strangers seeking some subtle rape.
What say ye?
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