Does the aura of a blowfly
wake with a sweet taste in its bodiless mouth
because fortune-telling priests no longer read steaming entrails
spilt by the sacrificial beast?
Without the drama,
I remember bourbon soaked lips
searching the catacomb for worship
darker than bohemia.
An indescribable scent
descends Plutonian water,leaving the Oracle at Delphi
blind, deaf and numb under obsolete
messages of marble.
It's enough to make you cry over Tarot cards positioned
one to ten in the Celtic Cross
of mysticism, right here,
on the dining room table.
Predictions never vary the shape of stones
buried in each godless word hurled,
but at least you
wrote it down on a piece of paper
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