Like a John Wayne revolver into a John Wayne holster
the stretcher slipped into the back of the emergency ambulance;
a cowboy paramedic — at the feet —
fell face-forward between Sally’s legs
as the worn sole of his Doc Martin’s boot slipped from the lock
that keeps patients in a stable position en route to the you-know-where.

Sally was floating again, only for a moment though;
an oxygen mask covered her nose and mouth,
sucking the life right out of her,
before a jet of cool air froze her oesophagus
and exploded in her lungs.

The paramedics had lifted her up, and the stretcher creaked
as they started jogging in their first-aid ways,
heading towards amber-urgent flashes

Sally had fire-tears in her eyes,
uncertainty set in and grew in her fingertips like tumors
as she reached for the outstretched hand,
reassuring like a mother’s,
yet so … artificial to the touch.

More flashes of that white light,
now coming from different corners of the church—
and word-voices in her head, muffled, as if muttered behind masks:
“Some sorta inhalant,

Wonderful, just wonderful;
teardrops on my fingertips,
miniature magnifying glasses molding
sculptures of undersea creatures
who dance invisible feelings.

Temple bells ring.

An angel sings;
its voice fades into the gutter like screeching tires
of an oncoming vehicle,
a demented daemon that jumps the curb,
heading straight toward us.

The steam hisses;
under your feet where your cracked soles scrape over the frost,
you freeze hell over through the roots
of frozen kikuyu dimension-blades
that stand out like Satan’s daggers.

A beam of light — the purest white —
gleamed upon them,
entangling their senses with strange strings of euphoria
that sizzled the skin;
through the sickening odour of church dust they rose,
over empty church pews,
Sally McCormack and one of the twins.

Somewhere below a six-gun clattered;
through the silver shimmer
of mirrored disbelief Sally saw the church rats scamper,

Father McDowell’s last words were muffled
when, like a yelping hound,
a false note resonated from the organ pipes,
and part of the sandstone wall behind the pulpit crumbled.

When the dust had finally settled,
and from where Sally was standing
on a hardwood church pew, thirteen rows back,
Father McDowell resembled a broken statue on a green cross

A drop of blood,
oozing from a tendril-prickle puncture,
sat on the blemish over Father McDowell’s brow,
a grotesque raisin in the Gregorian glow of candle wax scowls,
kept alive only by a slow pulse in the jugular,
until finally running down the bridge of an Irish rugby nose.

Bobby elbowed Billy,
who, holding up one hand in protest,

The last sliver of moonlight slipped;
over meaty vine-veins it stumbled,
and through the puss-glass-hole in Jesus’ side-window wound it fell,
shattering Mary’s tears into shards of excitement
– bright –
like diamonds reflected in a cat burglar’s eyes,
flashing a thousand expressions
across Father McDowell’s face.

Rubber bands bounced off his forehead;
Bobby and Billy shared a giggle

This was not the Mount of Olives;
the closest the people of Rinky-Dinkville
had ever come to a mountain - or an olive, for that matter -
was when ‘The Terrible Twins’, Bobby and Billy
(now seated in the back row, aiming rubber bands
at Father McDowell’s outstretched hands)
had blown up their parents’ backyard winery.

There wasn’t a cloud in the sky,

Father McDowell paused for effect;
a wave of exaltation (and a cold breeze) came over him
in a kaleidoscope of faded stained glass colours,
which crept over — and through — beads of perspiration,
moving like ticks, feeding off the dead skin on a wine-stained carpet
that was the birthmark on his forehead.

His eyelids were twitching,
and through midnight purples that blotted his sight,

A sudden chill rocked the congregation;
the organist coughed, and dabbed at his nose with a snuff-stained hanky
as a thick odor of freshly toiled soil rose from down below
in the abbey,
filling that space reserved for high notes and choir boys’ secrets only.

In the front row Sally McCormack sniffed;
she took advantage of the situation by placing her hymn book in her lap,

June 30, 2005, 6:24am

Ae walked two paces back to where the motorcycle was lying, back wheel still spinning. The handlebars were bent, the front wheel was buckled, and the clutch cable had snapped.

In the furthest corner of the churchyard,
underneath oak leaves that shimmer,
the Holy Ghost paces, thumbs in a twiddle;
moonlight shivers rustle the cloth on his back—
over chapped lips he coughs up
a spatter of beetle nut blood into concrete cracks,
which feed angry vines
that whisper-creep over his feathered feet,
and follow the crinkles in his robes

Break-of-dawn memories melt away in the midday sun;
the smell of secret sex under a pink mosquito net sunrise fades,
along with the faint fragrance of orange juice kisses
(twenty percent morning rays),
kidnapped,
and tortured into injecting the entirety of their lip-smacking
(eighty percent) sugary fumes
into the Styrofoam engines of fire ants’ pirate ships

Outside’s dressed up in 3am fishnets;
shooting star suspenders
(woven from strands of God’s silver semen)
crisscross cobwebs over pre-dawn’s mouth,
ready to go down,
trap,
and suck the joy right out of youth.

Yawn.

Stretch.

Wait.

Angie works the alleys that reek of greasy sausages and smut,
where beer-bellied men appear
and vanish into doorway varnish of invisible rooms,
spitting on their own doorsteps, stubby fingers
running over stained vests and wire wool guts.

Harry lives out yonder where plastic bags’ ballet shoes are made of glue;
he is sharing a hit
with a dreadlocked kid, just another invisible face,

The tips of Nature’s blades, each draped in a drop of fresh poison,
pierced the worn picnic blanket -
she spilled wine over her bare tummy;
I wretched, and 'biltong-tongued' her belly button.

Early morning rays pierced a hangover-cloudscape,
golden puppet strings, remote-controlled lasers,
which fast-played us into the Lotus position,
and muted our mutual oohs and aahs.

June 30, 2005, 6:o4am

When the drab eventuality of dusk finally crumbles,
and flakes like the petals of forgotten flowers
against stained hospital sheet skies,
a mountain breeze injects life into autumn leaves,
conjuring images of undead summer nights
that breathe rusted-orange wake-up dust
into owls’ eyes.