Back to the Primitive Alley,


Back to the primitive alley,
of sordid, yellowed thoughts
where men in once-white coats huddle, lapping at
puddles of disgust-congealed, somewhat molting-reddish flecks;
altarpieces to depressive frailty of the who-and-who
with His brown-teethed sneer and thin hide
that given sudden prod, will burst him
into pooling oil, textures that offend even the roguish
of boys, who, flinching at mere dust
will suspend their camaraderie to close their eyes,
hold themselves, rock gently, mouth silence,
and worship their flesh (their relics, their ritualism)
to lament a stranger who has yet again
failed to keep clean.

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