Strange bedfellows, shaking in their sheets, a rabbit there...a pizza pox, white chalk, at a drop somewhere...a pigeon, flying through the air, couldn't find a spotless dove...in all the kingdom.
Sticks, wands, wieners, clubs...the whole suit, trotted out...of thugs, to tear the world apart...dividing nations, breaking hearts, splitting stocks...fallen from a Tarot box, upon a silken scarf...describe a Celtic cross.
Wise eyes, spec a lay of land, is far from certain...yet, a shadow of the plan. A great church reek of garlic saure, a sucking sound, beneath her planks, where stacks of little bones...not named, are placed, and hidden far from sight.
Is this the power of the world, eternal life...in sacrifice, of all but your selves? Is this , the end, to which the prelates rise...to gorge themselves, on horror of the little ones, upon your silver chased and golden plates?
What have you done, you bastards of the darkest deep...to all the missing ones, taken from each house, in the stillness of the night, like a thief?
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: underground catacomb, Italy
In memory of my grandfather, William Lensdale
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