Iconoclasm

I swallowed the aerosol left behind
by the kind
and often intrusive house maid.
I watched the computer screen
for hours
with the beautiful old ghosts
as background music
to my new life
of heresy.
The sanctimonious choir sang songs
in tongues
for the voices in my head.
They told me to
hit the streets
with my new found passion for
bitter beer
and psalms
that leave no qualms
and no other questions
to be asked.
After I found the door
I found myself
on the streets
with no petitioners with
likeminded minds
like mine.
I found bitter and battered
old hags
that told me my mind was leaking
fumes that smelled
like sour pine.
I told them it was just the
sweet scent
of believe
and my sins finally
taking flight.
I told them to beware,
be aware.
I hugged and begged them
to touch my scars.
I groped their borrowed
genitals through
their Sunday best.
I asked them if they have accepted
Michael Jackson
as their own
personal savior.