poem || Anny Ballardini

Dogs and churches
 
In the same way dogs piss at all corners, she cries in all churches_
a father sleeping beauty is not every day’s doom;
eyes popping out of her orbits –
front-lobes scattered who knows where for her
not to think properly and this the whole day/night.
Is it them, her dearest enemies,
who keep on forbidding health to return, Hippocrates Oath’s betrayers?
They still wander in the thick dimness of their consciousness
in white coats white immaculate coats –
like the ruffles in Elizabeth the First’s time –
[no highbrow-ed connection with blue collars –
unless to steal what is due to them –
be it treatment or hard earned wages]
ironed by clandestine hands fed with the crumbles
of their redundant salaries untouched by their fast slimming diets.
Tennis & golf. Hairdresser’s chat. Otium.
This what you came all the way down here for?
Miserabilia.
 
haha_