Monkey Christ by Patricia Walsh

 

Elevated to rubble, aside to tax and insurance
foretold regret stunts the obvious station.
Holding through the sunshine, preparation stasis
cutting through threadbare hair styles avowed,
promise of a better dinner doesn’t augur too well.

Multifaceted anger burns its own hole,
smashed over curses and opportune screams,
exposed to holy water and a show to boot,
watched for faults oozing out of time
informant redacted over troubled bridges.

Clapped politely, another curse moving through the fair
enough rope to hang the satisfied, if ever at all.
Leaving the unwise, cooked in their jackets,
the vegan arrogance safely hitting the spot,
shouldering the effort in a darkened hour.

Intercepted transactions blur the happy situation
the nursery of damnation, van-guarding the times,
the great brew spinning on its solitary head,
sardonic inspiration turns back for no one,
a dangerous building biding time to fail.

The living really need the money, after all.
The advertisement t-shirts dissed out of turn,
affected graffiti dissolves out of existence,
this infantile congratulations, real time declarations
televised anger watering up the blessed ante.

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