The Baptism - Dustin Vado

Baptized by furries
in the sweat of providers
on a hotel balcony
for a party to cheer and worship,
a golden calf to grind, mold, and cook.

Born and slain for show,
the calf hidden harbors secrets
from a hungry herd
hoarding sacred bacon
on pallets stacked in tens
in warehouses bred in pens.
A thin cut line on a toilet seat,
visible to a resting traveler
but concealed to residents,
lures the road weary to lowly coma.

Toothless smile obscured in mask
at an exclusive masquerade,
pungent and organized
in loveless respect for cravings of the heart
fulfilled in mischief and grounded to
anonymity.

He will do anything to you,
just don’t tell him your name.

He turtles when identified
returning to a childhood slumber,
ashamed.

An unstoppable lust lurks
behind shoddy disguise
forcing itself to plain view.
With every slip of character
and thrusting hedonistic salute,
he rides the golden calf as his own
collaring a beautiful beast as property
drunk on it’s milk sucked from protrusions
encrusted with jewels
til dripping in creamed majesty
shocking voyeurs below with a smile
of cheese.

Of all the lies told to desperate crowds,
this is most deplorable.
Trolls below scamper with gaping jaws to catch a drip
like fresh rain.
Seeking power from the fluids falling
as they turn to solids,
speed of slugs drop terminal meaning
to the desperate clammering for anointment of their own.

Assimilating
like russian dolls
added to the collection
in a museum of bathroom stalls,
the hoards line up
and relieve themselves.