Blood Is The Sinner's Revenge

Thorns slung 'round my neck,
I wait for that kiss
of betrayal,
the silence between
jagged breaths,
that soft clearing
of a throat ready
to speak about coinage
or refuge in Stockholm.

Here in my blue garden,
filled with the footprints
of whores and lost Jesuits,
my tongue has been
                          fed to

poets
morticians
liars
& weeping mothers...
a delicacy.

I bleed, but my tormentors
all face east, already blind
from the sun's cruel, scorching reality.