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Goddess

There, that is where she resides

She floats there

amid a sea of shit and refuse,

coursing subcutaneous

in the veins of the city.

On her back perhaps,

arms outstretched

in mockery of our familiar savior,

her cool nails dredging slicks

she weaves her garland crown.

Glowing hollowly pale in manhold moonlight,

phosphorescent in greenblack mire,

call her mystery —

she is the soul of the city.

Devoid of her magic

we are ravenous,

pick clean this

festering carcass,

claws of overriding reason.

You will come to her

again in the palpable silence

of latenight city,

amid the empty howls

of nowhere dogs

bristling at the uneasy

sit of night,

drawn by her gentle haunt

murmuring through the grates,

a match to the silent rhythm of your soul

you will know it’s time.

Embraced by the rotting scent

staining forever your reasoned whiteness,

you will know it’s time.

Crouch and lift the grate aside,

you will see her,

light flash on blackened water —

cadaverous crone

in moonshrouded glory —

her pale crooked finger tracing a line

beckoning you

to descend the depths

and be

back into box and

descend faceless

among the crowds.

Her buttocks

squeak softly,

rhythmically

with the manual motion

of hand as she

masturbates to

pass time.