|
Before The Inquisitors |
this wizened blood, this clotty mass,
this sclerosis of vultures,
they peck decay off each other,
rabid from wine;
they christen each other’s failures,
castigating so sweetly
only morticians see the bites.
in cowls they come,
red wool with white leers.
in cassocks stoppered
by prunish heads.
a single smile
shares their faces,
darting like a lizard,
that leaves contempt
and a waggling tail behind.
they glare like jaundice
bottled by skullcaps.
whatever god enthroned them
isn’t great—
not if they wear His signet,
not when plump miters
hasten pride.
copyright 2007
Chris
Crittenden |
