Backwards to Bethlehem

Everything leaks. Look
down at the bottom of the hill.
That rustbucket drips
a rum/bourbon gutrot
of oil and metallic water
into a stream, curing it
of fish.

There's a hole
in everyone's bucket.
The hollerer outside
the cinema tells you
he knows a man
who can patch up
every soul's punctures.

The girl oozing want
would trade it for wantonness
in a snap. She'll hide
like a horny gremlin
between your sheets,
will tug your leg,
clinging like a swelling, until
you embrace
her dusty pool pocket.

As for the man
who wants nothing, he
will inherit neighbours
he cannot talk to,
a steel donkey
that only farts and reverses,
enforced guided tours
he'd sooner choke
than take
from an idiot disciple,
and a mispronounced name.

Brick by brick, he will be
removed from his lodgings
and reinstated,
shrunken, in
a glass coffin
as an example
or a warning.