Last Supper

Raised from the smutty toaster of death … .
At Five A.M., already drinking stale beer
With Lucifer’s sunny switchblade at your throat
While the neighbor with the bad cough
Jumps rope at the humming edge of the world … .

I should have tipped my hat to him but distracted
I was by the smell of freshly-cut roses
Cackling up my spine
As a hearse (black cape, blindfolded eyes) idled past
Heading for the famous train I saw in a painting once … .

‘It’s just a dirty fib,’ I’ll spiel to them
As they tuck their gods
Into cradles, tie their houses to kites
And gently piss against the wind

Praying the wind might whisper some-
Thing like a last supper back to them.