Walking below my shadow

Walking below my shadow,
where there is no one to follow,
to sleep within the joy of absence.
There crept a jar of syrup that kept rumbling through the night,
as the rattle silenced my lord.
Never waiting for answers,
It kept asking for more.
Sliding between the windows an ant chiselled through the Madonna.
While bumbling fools marched through the rains,
crying for those who fell from heaven and never made it to hell.
The caretakers clinched,
Winging through every drop they could find –
Blood, booze, puss, snot, jiz, juice, dew or spit.
Men flying through the skies as the winds took rest.
Blankets of women gliding towards all,
Flocking their cervixes and ridding the destitute night of old light of a forbidden son of a manly God.
Noses made the roads which simmered in leftovers of bare men and women,
Who lay on the soil that once trembled beneath their fate.
And there was I and you and me and her and him and her and no one I knew,
As the hand went beneath the spreads and the joined us in our vigilance.

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