Paper Doll

You’re an open-mouthed gargoyle

leering madly,

blood dripping

into the soil,

and I am the weak soul,

the one you take out

on Saturdays,

and it won’t catch the ball.

It just tries

to drown itself

at the bottom of the lake.

And we fuck

on jimsonweed,

listening to King Crimson,

just like Jesus

fucked Mary Magdalene

on cheap desert

mescaline.

But, dear Lord,

I’ve seen the

concentric circles

around the crucifix.

I know Your spirit

is in there waiting

to be spun ‘round the maypole,

a paper doll

with crude limbs,

dancing the Tarantella

with every spin.