The Red Rum of Santa Muerte

Bones are blurred b’neath a blanket of tears

All the while I’ve been bored

Staring at a snaking procession

Of the Santa Muerte.

A pastiche of devotees stutter

Out their cobbled prayers;

The red rum weighs down on my stomach

The drink wakes up the snake.

I don’t share their sweating pilgrimage,

The shivering prayer

From their dusty feet to a gruel

Of swaying hands propped up.

Bones are burned b’neath a blanket of fears

All the while I’ve been gnawed

Staring at a snaking procession

Of the Santa Muerte.

Their devotion makes me despise them

- that at least is my wish.

I am drawn by their subsonic moan

The subtle screech of trust.

A pander of jilting prostitutes

Sway outside my vision

So does a gang of harlequins who

Conjure up their own faith.

Bones are hurled b’neath a blanket of spears

All the while I’ve been caught

Staring at a snaking procession

Of the Santa Muerte.

Today is a fine day for red rum

So on a whim I come

Down to a snoozing bar, wincing:

The snake is persuasive.

Ingmar Bergman’s Death laughs at the snake

As we idly play cards

“I have no truck with pilgrims,” he says,

Then leaves the game midway.

Bones are spurned b’neath a blanket of cheers

All the while they’ve been dead

Staring from a snaking procession

Of the Santa Muerte.

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