The Saint

I am,
by the way,
not the pitiable bugger
that I used to be,
like,
say, yesterday

I have
prelaundered my
crumpled hide
and delivered it to
the cleaners
for them to sell it
at the flea market
on my behalf,
so that they will get a price
amounting to the ultimate deal
without my participation

So now
I have gotten rid of my
unfortunate skin
but
what about the embalming
of my intestines
collar bones
balls &
halfhearted smile;
or of the armpits
& ugly,
devastated liver?

Good riddance

Let them rest
in ochrecolored velvet
in the vicinity of
Carlo Gesualdo’s courtyard,
for ravens to pick at
and pilgrims to admire
unknown eons from now.

I am the Saint
that you have been looking for
among dustbins
and cat dynasties in
Largo di Torre Argentina

I am the
self-sanctified
Saint of bad luck,
dekidneyed, delivered,
and dismembered
to be displayed
in jolly marketplaces
along with similar
holy crackpots
in such locations
as Moroney, Rampadara,
Reghudafhan, Grabmyself,
Crocorhino, Shitealong,
& all over the place.

Sanctified by myself
because nobody else
was ever tempted to do so,
including Big Daddy in Rome,
Mohammad in Mecca,
Siddharta in Gahumkrionanga,
the whores in La Plata --
not even the sweet hookers
in the lonely streets of my hometown

I am the Saint
of common sanctity,

the unknown
and lingering
Soothsayer
of auctionable truths

© Erik Frisch