Her lips are
crimson, glossy with paint
As she whispers
in your inner ear.
Her timeless
voice is immeasurably faint
But you
cannot help but hear,
“Money is
worthless to the penurious saint.”
Her temple
is festooned with skulls and bones
Which dangle
and sway to and fro.
Various
blood types give the walls different tones;
The
attendants shimmer, gibber and glow
And the
feast consists of starving roans.
A pendant of
the bluest jadeite
Rests
between her powdered breasts.
The soul of
a holy man who in his fright
Renounced
the sacred ritual tests
Is trapped
within the mineral and out of sight.
If you hand
her an hour, she’ll spit back
A minute.
Try and beg her for time
And she’ll
give you the rack.
Daily she
sups on prose and rhyme
Immortality
is something she does not lack.
She’ll squat
on your grave and let out a stream
Of disdain
and liquor from a crystal chalice.
You are
damned to rot slowly, fixed on one dream
Filled with
worry, anxiety, boredom and malice
While she
distills your soul and laps at the cream.
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