Holy Assassination

I cannot accept the breath
of aristocratic smog,
fast lights,
and slow patent leather
tied to thin wire ties
and earpieces
resembling a
woman's stud.

Linger, Sir Thomas,
and taste -
her hymen was splintered
long ago.

We have forgotten thatched roofs
lining Canterbury's cobbles;
Beckett's conflict effacing
Tudor clones.

They are yesterday's
sadistic desires,
breached by sweet honey history
in the wilderness of god
on warm days
where settled pollen
rains its sticky past
over quaking aspen.







Pamela A. Lamppa
Copyright © 2012
all rights reserved
























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