A Prayer To Oblivion

I would rather listen to the hiss of shingle
rolling in the surf than any holy sermon.
Each step along the shoreline cuts new stigmata
in my soles and the sea breeze brushes me aside
like a prayer on the way to oblivion.
I am baptised in effluent from rusted pipes
of Victorian vintage. The crumbling infra-
structure of the pier is still stronger than my faith.

At the turning of the tide, I feel nothing from
heaven but the moon's persistent pull; dumb
as a fish hooked on gravity's line, swimming in
helpless circles. I see bikini clad angels
with goose flesh, without wings, who would tempt me closer
to the devil, but for their melanoma scars.