Routine
There is a pattern in sinning
that takes the savour from the act.
Today I could weep for my sins
and tomorrow call myself a fool
yielding to the after-tiredness of indulgence.
There is no use crying of spilt sperm.
What I do and regret today
I'll do and regret tomorrow
and whatever other tomorrow I may see.
with undiminished intensity.
Sin on a grand scale wouldn't be so bad.
Three dimensional
Todd-AO
auditory, visual, aromatic, cinemascope sin
with a beat a boom and a bang to it.
Sin biblical as Saul struck blind
and Magdalen's breasts curving over the dawn.
It is the inch-by-wary-inch
antiseptic, deodorised, medically, approved
behind-closed-shutters
closed-circuit do-it-yourself type of sin-making
that sucks a man dry
as a well sucked orange
trapping the poor wriggling eel like thoughts
in the wet and ragged net of
of his dull iniquities.
A glass of fine brandy renders some solace
and even at today's price
is cheaper than a full confession.
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