Birthmarks stamped on paving stones,

Sirens pound the corpse’s heart,



Extenuated, they

Spread their palms,


Our eyes in shame,

Pockets lighter,

But minds at rest,

Spitting alms.


The cadaver is ripe


Now sell to it the mausoleum of all hope and desire.


Providing the rope

For them to hang themselves,

While leaping for a taste of the dangling carrot.

The noose tightens;

Toes wriggle,

Lights turned off.


The guillotine is traced with sugar,


The executioners,

Beneath the pall of our prayer halls.

Congregations flood to

Cleansing houses, congratulating each other:

“The market has won. We have sold the dream”


As some others of purple blood

Gather their numbers

To condemn creeping death.


Promising that beneath the tiles lays the beach–

Eager to kiss their feet.



3 thoughts on “Charity

  1. Sometimes, nothing is as it seems…not all sweet things are good, not all that is bitter is bad. But we want only the sweet…and pursue it till we drop in the pit


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