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
(detritus)(poetica)(myth)(opinion)(divination)