Foreign Exchange Students? Poem by Mark Heathcote

They're all parasites, He says.
Fleas on His back and nape
his tridents tail His fiery mane.
They circle around His burning boils
licking their ashes - anguished dust
they crawl through the labyrinths
-of His eyes taking subway journeys
to crumbling monolithic churches
suckling on blood and brimstone
and fire! They call themselves,
banker's tourist asylum seekers
stock-exchange material world leaders
they call themselves
foreign exchange students?
Liberated economic market equity slaves
they call themselves the avant-garde
but they're all his brothers
His suckling sisters
His riving desires, His lust
flea-like rolling around on their bellies
whispering please 'Lord, save us.'