Its inhalation akin to unwashed pails below July sun
Stink reaching Daddy’s wrinkling nostril
Me lying before he even made to cast a stone, assuring guilt sits my bones
Daddy, before you say it, I washed them milk pails now y’hear?
A different man sheds a tear, beats him here like a Christian Brother upon hearing an imperfect definition of a sin of omission; these violent men more vikings than vicars took their violent vocations away on foreign missions.
Flesh so black its red, bored of God, bored of this priest’s single bed, book-matching lesions.
Alchemisland 
Leave a comment