Mark of the Beast

                                        A kiss of graffiti pisses its mark
on the face of a cathedral crumbling
beneath its great anarchic weight, a stain
painting over ancient authority
with ærosol flame, unclaimed damages
paid for boldly with anonymous fame
unashamed creators and censors both
admire and ponder, as boldest DayGlo
rain fluoresces the scene: a riot
                    silenced only by centuries of pain

                                        those sin-lined walls hide, retaining tears like
a catalogue model does water while
crash-dieting, her ice-thin façade and
those tired stones of that church about to give
out from such agonizing bloat—and so
adhered to each other by the same doubt,
the most subversive art works into its
cursive repertoire, all of the faith and
fear its hand had intended to cast out—
                    as one condemned structure shrieks, another

                                        seeks with identical fervour to be
heard, forming identity while speaking
what both believe to be truth, that what each
keeps inside needs to be released, either
through a prayer or a shout, the writing on
the wall all about what divides and brings
together such misunderstood people—
without your dislike of whom this world’s womb
would have no balance between true good and
                    pure evil—birthed without your approval.