everything is heresy

In the city where my mother was born and where I have
Never been an infidel could hide
Behind a blade of air or cut the world into thin slices
Just for a grain of sand any vagabond could
Detach the roofs and towers from the sky and walk
Away laughing
Cursed by the snore of the empress
(Time on her temples dried faster than submarines after rain
Than the wine made on the fifth day of creation)
People ate rat tails and had sex with demented horses
Local angels were eternally out to lunch
And the street campfires smelt like the tongues
Of soused storytellers wrapped in blankets and towels

 

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