The Feast Of St. Elvis Poem by M.C. Bruce

(After a Drawing by Leigh White)


The rabble will resort to cliché
Muttering song titles as if they were
Holy writ; you know the ones I mean.
They no longer sing to me.

I will venerate you for the sacred
Fire with which you purified
A weary world, scorching
Television screens and teenagers

Boys and girls alike, visiting
Their dreams with a vision
Of damnation and salvation
With a beat they could dance to.

O, liberator angel,
Sign of the apocalypse,
The only one of the four horsemen
Slinging a guitar.