Day 17

Trade your tongue
for 8 balls
and your mind
for tarot cards

lets go play
with past
memories
and future scars

The devil's made
his nest in heaven
tricking church folk
to eat stone bread

each pebble
a small indiscretion;

she slept with him
he smoked with her
and the reverend still drinks gin

Lick clean the spoon
of false perfection
and beg to taste some more

you will worship your own worship
you will adore your own adore

the devil's made
his nest in church pews
smelling of slippery
wood polish

Every Sunday
they sit with him
to deal a new fortune
and polish the
grain of their own
empty minds

prostrate to
each other salivating
with piety and facades
of lost interest

"Come, oh come Immanuel
and ransom your captive...."