Exodus by Alan Catlin

They acted as if they were twelve
apostles, seven days dead, dancing in
slow motion to scratched platters played
a few rpms below regular speed in some
third world, off road, pickup bar.
Old time black and white movies flashed
on their bodies making everyone seem
more unreal than they already were,
gyrating in some kind of post-dress-
rehearsal-for-a-death, rag.
The one who fancied himself a Technicolor
Judas wore a stained by goat’s blood Joseph
coat, led the way into unisex bathroom
for crank and dissolute sex with bony,
washed completely out ,bleached blonde,
kohl eyed, botox lipped Madonna of
the meth lab, an act so difficult to follow
none of the others dared to follow where
their leader had tread. All of them so whacked,
bouncers had to forestall leave taking to
insure the all important settling of the tab.
All that remained of their swag, held by self-
proclaimed judas, was a handful of coins
scattered on the bar, insufficient funds to
prevent the kind of beating no man was meant
to endure. If there was a state of being
such as worse than dead, one of the faithful
said, their judas priest embodied it.
No funeral services have been arranged.

Alan Catlin
Alan Catlin is the poetry editor of misfitmagazine.net. His latest books of poetry are American Odyssey from Future Cycle and Last Man Standing from Lummox Press
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