I've
fucked and fought my way across the south ‒
a
bloody trail from Naples back to Rome ‒
a
shadow master with a gobby mouth
and
never any place to call my home.
The
patronage of power is my shield ‒
dissolute
behaviour is no bar
whether
it's a sword or brush I yield ‒
but
murder is just one small step too far.
So
courtesans and young men heed my call ‒
there's
always room for revels at the inn
where
Holofernes screams down from the wall
and
John the Baptist wears my broken grin
where
Judith prowls the campfires like a ghost
and
shadows fall as fever on the coast.
RJT
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