by gerard varni
Ishmael? fuck that punk; call me judas
The betrayer who's desirous lips brushed
Anointed flesh, marking it for certain
Resurrection--the wretch whose own hide
Was doomed to self-annihilation before
The birth-slime had even oozed from his lungs.
We are diminished by our desire
For innocence, and we debase those who
Possess it. what does that leave the traitor?
A rope, a tree, coins flung at dying light;
Then, a twitching silhouette splayed against
A bloated reddish moon, with head thrown back,
Mouth agape and eyes bulging toward heaven.
All rights reserved.
a particularly regrettable betrayal. nothing religious about it.