transubstantiate

I swallow a tincture of the ghost, I founder in the smoke, ash from the altar tracked across the floor. There is the hole of wanting, the aspect always wanting more. There is a coiling shadow crawling towards the curtains, the sun set to burn and blind. The crawling through the affects as the self starts to glow, the rosy play of rhyme across the synapses, the dance tripping off the tongue. I swelter on the record, I smolder in the act. The skin shed left, simply sweat and fact. 

Comes the same old heat, comes the same old cosmic disassembly. The matter only stepping stones into the cold unknown, the spirit seeping through the clock and the carcass, the mind largely conjecture and superstition. The spin from words and brake lights, the boardwalk bare in the sunlight revealing all the spectacle and the flesh. Walk upon the pier, stumble with the waves. An old story told first by the etiquette. A love there spilling at your feet.

It’s been awhile since the faith was abandoned. It’s been a long time between Judas goats and candles lit. The old bones punching in with the season, the old blood slowly burning out. With the  grace of a phrase you consecrate, with the man-handled metaphor you leave your witness wanting more. How needy the animal, how slow the rope. This long pause before the knots begin to preach. This slow smoke crowning this drowning faith.