Queer Ritual

Such a queer ritual they have, the

masses whose necks are bount tightly and capped heads and

hot coats

marching and parading in their snow-soaked denim

cold legs, cold feet, their faces shiny and noses running,

the air turned to ice in their lungs, they gasp

and sing songs of dead kings

(or undead)

and of the impending intrusion

by the stranger in

blood-red garb.