David Estringel

Neon Gods

Sacred footsteps 
of pilgrims and 
street PrOphETS 
piss-stained lottery tickets and 
dirty hypodermics—
like rose petals, strewn
under maidens’ tender feet—
pave the way
to playing card Meccas
beyond doors
to salvation/damnation,
below fiery eyes that cut
the night (and souls) in two
with gazes and blinks 
(but never sleep). 

Quite the price 
to pay
to cross these fickle streams
that run
sacrificial red 
with self-severings 
of thigh bone and fat,
and spiced with lotus wine—
in want of burning
on conjured stages and 
electric alters
for Vanity’s spectacle.

How divine 
the honied stench
of auto vivisections (splayed out
for all to see),
making followers and 
the blue birds that tweet
appetites and tastes for
eyes (for eyes) and teeth (for teeth)— 
for the sake of ounces (of fame) 
for pounds (of flesh)—
like cold Lethe 
and her gentle lapping,
smooth, of jagged rocks
upon Hell’s bitter shores.

Let us pray 
(for emergence
from this opiate haze
and a quick flip of the switch).



Originally published at Cephalopress

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