St Brigid, Canto One

(Lights low, up. Young girl at alter, with short black skirt, and ribbons in her hair, at prayer - Incense smoke)

The Poet: (Just above a whisper) -
Lady Brigid, flaming queen of heaven, harken,
I've spread my hungry cunt lips wide and longing,
While images of corn stalk zombies danced in my mind,
Hemp smoke choking my tight throat dying,
My bare heels skyward, my fat ass quivering wild,
St. Brigid, pray, pray for this, your daughter of desolation,

Brigid, Brigid, taste the snot laden running blood,
Of my salty monthly juices flowing, so proudly,
Warm lava torrents gushing lovingly over white pressed sheets,
And call my sin your liberation,
St. Brigid ...

Brigid, once my father took me alone to a wide field,
In the country, rolling choked with smattered daisies and tulips glistening,
A picnic lunch and laughter and belches with bubbling cider,
Pulled off the dust lane cracked with etched indecision,
And apple trees laden with green hanging testilces smiling,
Breezes sun kissed and warm over my naked thighs peeping,

And the flush of the denim toilet room again in my being,
Hard and mean girls looking at us who are soft and budding,
Not to fuck us, not to want us, but to pound us, kill us,
Destroy the virgins of sacrafice before the alter of rebuke,
And we squirm dressing, fleeing, away, away,
To sanctuaries of thought, blessed thought, forever numb and beaten.

Oh, St Brigid hear now the prayer of the adoring fallen,
She who was sent alone into the tower of remorse
And had her panties pulled slowly down, her tiny tits
Squeezed, pinched without mercy during that hard night,
So hard, when someone, anyone, shared a spring night movie,
Nightmare on someone's street, paradise on mine ...

St. Brigid, lady of the streaming golden twilight,
Who reeks of the purest pine smoke kindled,
Like the freshest bower of the highest born, so new,
And their cherry red cars, and rising oak cottages,
And talk of the campus scene, and need for Notre Dame football,
And me, my pussy just itching, needing, wishing,

To the woods, I used to go, in my days of girlhood,
Roving far from the nettles of dejection,
While the ...

End transmission ... Silence