WD 163 “Where the Saints Dance”

A musing inspired by The Muse of Cold Earth

Where the Saints Dance

Defiance can be found

At the bottom of a glass

Or, on concrete

After you cut your teeth on the curb 

Grating the brain out of your skull like shredded cheese 

In the name of the saints 

Their eyes are closed but they listen really hard, to make sure

We’re all doing well in bed

Saying prayers by night and 

Going wild in the twilight hours between dionysian and apollonian 

The average lifespan of a saint is not very long 

So whoever wishes to lose his life should save it

But whoever wants a pound of flesh will find it 

A squirt of blood and bile by the corner store 

Tantamount to witchcraft and wild lies