This kind of Midnight Mass is not what I need:
Two bearded dwarfs in leather tear up the floor.
The sharp tongue of a dark god makes my ear bleed.
All Madonna's virgins are decked out like whores.
How this thick smoke burns my eyes! Whatever
happened to snow? This intense heat is a river
of flames I try to dance on forever:
I stumble and fall down hard. Some unknown lover
hauls me up before I drown in the fire.
The half-remembered poem I recite reminds
me of school: Lear's Fool could not be a liar
and disappears forever, while more unkind
players tell pretty lies and survive the play.
This bar is a stage; this stage isn't holy:
They make me get out. I haven't a cent to pay
for the long ride home, alone in Hell's folly.
Poem © 2012 by Dylan Mitchell
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