Palm Readings

Call me out.
You anxious, deceased
mongrels of my past.
Found in the alleys of time.
Hiding in doorways
dingy, and eclipsing
the calloused hands
of the one true
stumbling priest
left in London.

Wash them out of my
tangled curls,
and cut them gone.
Hide them, so that
the secrets, the pages
of not so delightful
happenings will never
walk again.

Didn't the world give you
a fair chance?
Of course it did.
For it does not discriminate.

It calls to us,
to hide our skin,
tack up a smile,
and never look back.

But come on, come out
you sneaking folly.
Break our legs,
and you will find that is all
you've ever wanted
to do.

So we will seep out
hatred for your perfection.
And we will fight you
over,
over
and falling over.

But who will remain
on their feet
in the end?
Who will still have
shoelaces tied and
shirt buttoned with dignity?
Oh, it will be you,
you shining scum.

But we are built
by you, our past.
And although we were
reduced to infants
by your rememberance,
We will grow up again,
to laugh in your face.
Even more handsome
than we were before.