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I Used To Be a Preacher
I used to be a preacher.
That life has vanished, along with all the others.
My name? You can see it spelt in innocence
nailed to the display wall,
in god-inspired half-written sermons
condemned to that corner where a squeaky hinge meets my worship hall's door.
I have shook hands with too many hypocrites;
heard too many demented screams echoing down the corridor.
At twelve-oh-five the exits crack open
and I feel you spilling out of my hall
to splatter and disperse like fresh milk on the floor.
It's twelve-fifteen and I am back at my desk reading Ecclesiastes
while Bono sings soothingly to nobody in particular;
nobody at all.