God, I follow your promise at the shallow cratch
In darkness where chickens sleep on eggs unhatched.
Forehead bloodied, bowing violently on cement
While swift crows pock my pointy head, I lament.
Pluvious depressions in ruts, constant downward glance
As I fiddle and fondle and fuss in my pants.
The Last Upper in night huddle of turmoil
Embedded in fat phlegm like an unlanced boil.
Dreams of amour gone like posts in the ether,
Saccharine sallies shorted; I need a breather
From vile verse. Pray, where are those mounds of glory
I can mount in sly sermons? What's the story,
Preachers of my young years, when, fresh from the field,
I'd see musky angels in pink leotards? Sealed
In a pewter thermos, God’s verdict a chaos.
I sucked up your mildness, toga-tosser, but, hey boss,
I never thought they’d catch on after forty threads
Of hypocrisy. In the next act, I’m dead,
Martyrizing my manhood, a manx’ matted guts,
Exposed, sticky, trailing, a sour slug with cuts.
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