CONFESSION
I go into the confession booth (God knows why)
and sit down like I'm in a furniture shop
waiting for a friend who's using the loo.
The priest I cannot see, but his breath
passes through that dark holey board
like a swarm of those weird little flies.
They may be gnats, and his breath may be blessed
a little too much; I swear the whole truth
is there's so much booze on it I feel a bit sick.
"I must confess," I say in the unutmost earnest,
"that I find this utterly and completely pointless.
What of the church but a really bad joke?"
The priest is asleep, his mouth like a stigmata.
"Vampire," I hiss, and walk out onto the street
where they're playing The Matrix on a stadium-sized screen.
I turn around, go back inside and pour
a generous glass of blood red wine.
The priest is snoring. I can't tell you how cross I am.
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