harvest

people dressed in cartoon exaggeration
boobs held up and out and proud like a small Scottish lake
corsets tight to the curves of Roger Rabbit's female star
codpiece and nothing but the cold November night
everyone but the strongest in light thieving black

life requires me to meet such places
observing these modern pagan rites
without a modern pagan god
remembering learning Bristol's roman tales
their celebration of harvest

priests parading the streets
seeking virgins of every gender
to chase to catch to whip
to celebrate the fertility
of the english vice

who of us would hide to hide
who of us would hide to be found
who of us like me would take the priestly vows

perhaps still worshipped Shiva is visiting anonymously
preparing to announce
someone in the background dominating the gathering
he could do something
for our harvest festival