by Flora de Falbe

Hey! Dust yourself off
and get down from that pedestal.
Your stone wig looks ridiculous;
the pilgrims have dried up.

Get down and we’ll take stock.
Look: you have ten fingers
and a splendid pair of ears,
still keen to be taken for a spin.

All you need, to be a hero,
is the blam, blam, blam of your pulse.
You can start a revolution
with bird shit on your shoulders.

You can jam the jaws of death
with that ill-advised wig;
slip away in your own bed,
decades from now, still chuckling.

Get down from that pedestal
and run away somewhere dangerous.
Sprint through the streets
with armfuls of fireworks.

Worship yourself, you fabulous sack of skin;
here is the Rapture you’ve been waiting for.
Get down, and let the earth
shudder beneath your feet.