Another Sunday Poem

Sunday morning she wakes

to a thousand drunken prayers

left in the night

by the eternal penitent

She gently removes the nails from his wrists

And turns to more trivial matters

Newspaper drivel

mixes body counts with fuel prices

fashion trends with natural disasters

class struggle with the fall TV lineup

All this violence and juxtaposition smacks of Christianity

Sunday is the patron saint of hypocrites

The television oozes talk of war

and athletes aping warriors

Murder is the king of Sunday morning

Worshippers kneeling in homage to a bloody human sacrifice

And failing to heed the lesson of it

There are days when it’s better to forget you’re human

better not to admit you belong to that

Sometimes she seeks absolution in sin

Lets forgiveness drip from her breasts like mother’s milk

And takes her turn at needing a saviour

More often than not one will be provided

The fisher king lies in wait

A thousand blessed kisses

could never heal a wound like that

but a girl could save her soul in the trying


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