Tuesday, November 3, 2009


The jury is out
in dark chocolate
vanilla creamed tongues
are waggling a noose;
a saviour is smeared as a wanton
spender, as an insurance policy
is cancelled by foamy mouthed liars.

The paling is rampant
with pointed fingers,
blaming the mess
on shit on a shingle...

Hello, it's white sauce,
and chipped beef on toast points,
and houses foreclosed
in a white collared debacle.

The spirit lives
in sacred darkness,
your papal drunkenness
is our only schism.

Up from the ashes
of a smokey pier,
zombies will applaud
the darkened angel...
and the meek will indeed
inherit the Earth.

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