at the crack of dawn the lampposts weep

actors will have their crowd
sprawled and in thrall
the moment the lights go out
and final curtains fall

kings will no doubt have
their men; their monuments
alabaster jars, slaves
concubines and all

warriors will have their wives
daughters and gun salutes;
their flags on the stand-by
for when the shadows call

but who will weep now
for the whore—

and that tattered red dress;
those rouged cheeks that roar;
the tired laughter from a queen
blowing easy in the wind?

who will weep now for that jaunty gait
the staccato of worn-out stilletos
echoing loudly against darkened halls
painting the lonely nightsky red?

who, indeed?

certainly not
the kings, the soldiers;
the actors that groaned
and moaned in her bed

the traffic signs will remember
and the streets that shared her rampage;
the paling moon by the crack of dawn
and that lamppost she calls home

they will remember
they will weep
and not forget.

saints

your saints taunt me—
spit at me in the face,
they mock me;
them with their stern faces
carved in stone

i do their tap dance
tap tap tap
to implore them
tap tap tap
to spare me from such hatred
tap tap tap
oozing from your eyes

tap tap tap

it soars with my grief
as you mix them, croaking
with diabolical devotion--
bloated frogs
swimming on your cauldron

tap tap tap

and must you laugh
you hag, you witch
your big ugly laugh
as you drown me down
your wicked brew?

tap tap tap

and oh, those grimy things
you spit; the muck
that cake your lips,
from the putrid words
they feed you--
you really take from them,
don’t you—

your saints

stern-faced
carved in stone

tap tap tap

spitting dead rats
and sewage goodies,
by way of your religion