A Little Lower than the Angels

Can you imagine
how profound
prayers prepared
for disaster
never aired

You took
my virginity
as a penalty,
now mystery
somehow plays
the part of pain
so pleasantly.

your terror,
religion somehow
found, lost its appeal
near the third act
of our tragedy.

on the ground,
veils tearing my eyes
abound in views
already expounded—
flesh weighed
in the mind

flattened by
rots like roadside dogs
in one whore’s town—
wandering around;
where’s the truth now?

Were you the mayor
not the butcher,
you’d look better
if you’d put your
foot there before
your mouth
went down.

A little lower
than the angels,
knowing less of danger
than anger, you made
straight our way
to the layer where
demons labour.