Swallowing slowly, hands curving down your throat

promising forgiveness in this

incarnate,

a tepid vulture sits on a throne.

Guts enough, to kneel,

to turn the lollipop head, sometimes

to see the gluttony in the rainbow blades

but feel

the sticky cloying

mass around your neck,

an ecumenical iPod -

backdating your sins every fucking time -

there is fear.

If the mind wasn't so starched,

such a stranger,

such a Raven on your bedpost,

it wouldn't be such a chore

to stock up for the bailliff, hungry for your repent,

but twist the rubix,

so all your colours fit perfectly -

oh, what a wonderful creature you are!

Narcissistic rage, rage, rage,

against the dying of night,

realising that heaven

could just be the bullet for the brain.

Ring yourself out over this one,

taste as much beauty as you can,

you'll never see me again.