Monsignor (Paternostradamnapedaphistick)Jonah Winter
An enormous human insect in flowing robes, it glides through the gloom of dark cathedrals, lighting candles and speaking words of Ancient Text from languages only the lonely remember. Clinically, it defies analysis, though some experts have described it as “Obsessive-Compulsive.” With hooded eyes, the creature stares into the souls of its little victims, exacting full possession and devotion forever and ever, till death do them part: The Seed of Man is planted in the virgin garden, and what grows there, and what grows there, and what grows there… It has real hands, made of human flesh, and those hands do what those hands do. There is only one method of fighting this fiend. If encountered, remove head at once and incinerate. And may God have mercy on your soul.
Author Discusses Poems
|©copyright 2004-2018, No Tell Motel. All poems ©copyright the authors.|