Inaugural

Corroded trumpets blast fanfare flakes of rust across the path, and crunch beneath clipclop of venom- heel pavement slap. A reticent pavement groove catches a foot before the pull-out.

It’s a grand, grand day when the Right Ones get their blessing,
Their clean faces scrubbed again after the circle gathering of purge. They stand around,
Heads dipping to the bucket to get everything gone.

“Do it faster!” barks the Boss.

Purify the inside but keep the filth. Even when they refill it’s mostly
Grave-chunk runoff, b(l)ackwater bilge. They all want the guttersuck, but
The parade is for the people while the tepid barrel waits.

It’s a tomcatting foxtrot march of placebo with masks in rhythm,
“More pow-pow firepop!” barks the Boss.

On the float they have her prepared, feet tied,
She is hanging facedown.
A glimmer and the red comes, crowd sees either throat cut or heavy breast sag.
A lowmurmer gurgle as she blithers gives them pause.

“Crimson mark of territory – proceed!” barks the Boss.

The blood is thrown and the crowd pushes to hellish demonstration.

“Swarm!” barks the Boss.