Portrait Of St.Agatha With Credit-Card, Upon Which Rests One Of Her Amputated, Blue-Veined Breasts Poem by Anthony Weir

Passing between The Slaves of Glory
Tabernacle and the vast, last fast-food
outlet, still considering
the irredeemability of Man,
I, who only twice brought stinking beggars home
and have aspired to kiss the sores
of dogs, felt the packaged-stupid
God put his product in my mouth

And in that little
delivered-moment of God’s fun
I recognised the dark side of the moon
to be humanity,
and consciousness to be
the dark side of the sun.