A heathen roasts his ankles in Babylon’s waters,
Coping and lifting his children
Who are too painted and well fed.
Who drive on highways too jaded to be endured.
But his eyes see heathens’ heads
In a rucksack at his side, swinging,
Soaking and white and gilded and shining,
But bleeding their cocaine calamity
And their automatic rectangles
Just dancing, swinging, pendulous and laminated.
A fool perceives for perception’s sake
And rusty swing sets can easily empathize
With distracted girls who clamber onto horses
Speeding and reaching their nostrils,
Pausing for trouble, if trouble is worth it,
Bathing in Babylon, skating on blades which slice
At blood drenched ice.

For heathens existed in this place:

A painted corsair strokes the saline wind with his middle finger,
carving, curving, tasting and hearing.
The fire behind his eyes grows
fainter, displacing distrust into the stale, tepid seas.
And he grows weary.
On a shoulder rests an albatross with eyes sharp and raw,
loving, feeding, caving and steering,
so blatantly off course he scans
for his concomitant, refracting his distress through
the sun's leering,
And falling short as she flies
just beyond his boxed-in eyes.
Last edited by jamminbass at Apr 29, 2008,