Sunday comes bare-footed
Wears a dark face in the shape and image
Of a beautifully designed godess
Weaving the day's destiny. There's the
Knock on the back-door, there she is
Standing there bearing a handful of broken flowers
Stolen from someone's garden, and in the other hand
A plastic bag that contains a can of baked beans
A bottle of cheap wine and a half-torn loaf under her arm.
Its the regular Sunday ritual, has become a
Major art form, bread/beans/wine
And multiple orgasms. Sure, I should be on my knees
In the church down the road apiece like the other screwballs
Worshipping a waxen image of a crucified Christ
Listening to the Sunday God's misunderstood suggestions.
But we, we lose all sense of sin having fallen
To the lounge floor like foot-soldiers in soft mud, like
Two starved goats that have'nt eaten for weeks...
Forgotten beans frothing on a hot stove erupts/explodes
As two burning skins paint the the color of their flesh.
*
lancelot