Christ may have been a great sacrifice,
But today,
Today I don’t care for the pastor or the priest.

Today my soul is skin deep.
And this is the first incidence of decadence.

Like seven sins, like seven days
There are seven incidents,
Then, is the fetid consummation by flaming prayers…
(But what do we care)

Forgiving voices cannot hold me back, tonight
For I climb
I climb the spiral stair
The spiral stairway into a smoke.

And only the morning,
The morning can burst open
The depth of my lust.
Only the morning with its blinding light
Can clean the wounds of the night.
Only the morning can slow down my speeding mind.

When I am done through the day, the daily paper
I feel no remorse till I am settled for supper.
Only then in the pseudo-alter of my subconscious
Does arise a voice speaking easy,
Arise a voice with licking desire
Of blood, of grief and even the tragedies of the Greeks.

But with a metaphysical smile,
I brush everything past
And leave the world to economists and politics.

I have no eye, no time
For parliamentarians or their butcher knives.

In India
Decadence is a half smile half scorn
Wraparound.
You must learn to breathe with your mask on.