By David Estringel
Sacred footsteps
of pilgrims and
street PrOphETS
atop
piss-stained lottery tickets and
dirty hypodermics—
like rose petals, strewn
under maidens’ tender feet—
pave the way
to playing card Meccas
beyond doors
to salvation/damnation,
below fiery eyes that cut
the night (and souls) in two
with gazes and blinks
(but never sleep).
Quite the price
to pay
to cross these fickle streams
that run
sacrificial red
with self-severings
of thigh bone and fat,
savory-sweet
and spiced with lotus wine—
offerings
in want of burning
on conjured stages and
electric alters
for Vanity’s spectacle.
How divine
the honied stench
of auto vivisections (splayed out
for all to see),
making followers and
blue birds that tweet
forget
appetites and tastes for
eyes (for eyes) and teeth (for teeth)—
for the sake of ounces (of fame)
for pounds (of flesh)—
like cold Lethe
and her gentle lapping,
smooth, of jagged rocks
upon Hell’s bitter shores.
Let us pray
(for emergence
from this opiate haze
and a quick flip of the switch).
Amen.
David Estringel is a writer/poet with works published in literary publications, such as The Opiate, Azahares, Cephalopress, North Meridian Review, Poetry Ni, Dreich, Horror Sleaze Trash, Terror House Magazine, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Ethel, The Milk House, and The Blue Nib. Connect with David on Twitter @The_Booky_Man and his website www.davidaestringel.com