cannibalism, ceremonial worship, a tool
used to reinforce fairth. I am devout
follower, lining up to take sacrament.
I am mouth, eager to devour
the wafter-thin representation of holy
skin. I am desert expanse of tongue,
desperate to lap the crimson water
christened divine. Blood of our
salvation. Blood is our
salvation. Still, I am consumed with need
to confess. I am
an unacknowledged sin.
While sharing another pot of tea,
their conversation soon meanders
beyond the pastry savouries,
and Nausea Sartre mescaline.
They stare towards a nothingness.
Epiphanies all flutter past,
a breeze of moths and butterflies.
I leave the posh pâtisseries -
solitude has made my coffee cold.
