MY RANDOM
MOLECULAR COUSINS
(the Malarkey Brothers Religous Tent Service, 1972)
Were targa-time remnants to come,
now would be the moment. I am sheathed
in a scarf of ivory - like a sculpture, like
a memorial. Martyred dead, unshod masses,
those slaughtered for what they believe.
In an otherwise broad gesture we too are
marching to a Praetoria, of sorts. Gold watches
hang from chains, wrists on crosses, nailed hands -
all these things bleed, momentary truths and tokens.
All those soulful mourners singing, they march across
the street from where the killings first took place.
A source-book for the redness of the river's blood.
The soda fountain makes a lie of the color red.
Even the Cardinal from St. Matthias' Residence,
he whacks off in rhythm to only the Gods of his
own frantic desire: eternal life, the collection plate,
the resounding success of 'Thy Will Be Done.'
MOLECULAR COUSINS
(the Malarkey Brothers Religous Tent Service, 1972)
Were targa-time remnants to come,
now would be the moment. I am sheathed
in a scarf of ivory - like a sculpture, like
a memorial. Martyred dead, unshod masses,
those slaughtered for what they believe.
In an otherwise broad gesture we too are
marching to a Praetoria, of sorts. Gold watches
hang from chains, wrists on crosses, nailed hands -
all these things bleed, momentary truths and tokens.
All those soulful mourners singing, they march across
the street from where the killings first took place.
A source-book for the redness of the river's blood.
The soda fountain makes a lie of the color red.
Even the Cardinal from St. Matthias' Residence,
he whacks off in rhythm to only the Gods of his
own frantic desire: eternal life, the collection plate,
the resounding success of 'Thy Will Be Done.'
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