blessed are the lame

Every line that begins with a trochaic foot
ends up in a rainforest reeking of ancient ruins,
where we can’t find anyone to listen to our gibberish
besides the spirits of cannibalistic priests.
They will always be happy to accept us as members of the family,
and even when the night comes,
we shall not be able to garrote them one by one
to avoid their disgusting insinuations.

Gods of clairvoyance, uniform and melody
can be easily distracted by mercurial interjections;
blindfolded they stumble indefinitely
between Sodom and Gomorrah, back and forth;
while gaping they see only your genitals
and latest tax report.


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