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Costa Nostra.

THE SCREAMING MADONNA

By Jessy SavagePublished 2 years ago 1 min read
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In the light she was solidified marble with a demure and contagious sneer, looking down on you, clutching her guarded rosary. Her eyes were too shielded to yield any discernible secrets, or fortunes. Her bare feet barely peeked through, carved as an afterthought, carved as a necessity - abysmal holiness cannot be captured in earthly stone. We weigh more than the sum of our sins.

At night she joined the restless ranks of the damned. In the light of the full moon she was corporeal, with new skin. She’s allowed to scream, sometimes. No body howls harder than her.

“Jesus. Shut the fuck up. Sympathy cancer. What an awful thing to say.”

I’m buttering my hollowed bones. I’ve got sweetbreads. I’ll tattoo black rings around my eyes so the gods could pluck me from the skies.

I don’t know just how quickly fluorescent flesh replicates, but I imagine an utterly unending pool of wealth, a refuge from which souls are drawn in the same inks - some marred skins, some untouched and marbled-pure - brand new. Holy regrown follicles looking nothing like they once were, unrecognizable human art form. Limbic systems re-firing synapses like meteor showers of familiar thought. There’s respite - there’s a mausoleum inside of here full of connective tissue, atoms, and custard. Congealed egg yolks and seagull feathers.

I have to offer up all of these parts of myself on a marble platter - tenderloins, blurred horoscopes, sclerosis, and the wrong constellations. Jesus was a Scorpio. I’m always on the cusp of a hymn, and you.

I think, therefore, I must exist somewhere twice, too.

surreal poetry
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About the Creator

Jessy Savage

I have a passion for violating words and disregarding grammar. I make stuff up. I embellish tiny details, and I remember viciously. I would do anything for a good story, perhaps this is my downfall.

jessy[at]jessysavage.com

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