My God's in hell, and all is well.
Stitched up eyes and sickle cell.
I cannot thaw the lack in me.
Submerged in demonology,
but I hope beyond hope
I will not inflict the wound that they left
when they subtracted six million.
So why am I repulsed by change?
A holy book has been deranged,
and once a thing of such beauty
has been raped and cut to swaths by me.
We breed to bloat and come and hate.
Have I earned the want to procreate?
If you're in there, so hear me sing
"I would choke for you, you're everything."
Burned at the stake,
a gene just a weight
when the trauma leaks down,
the bombs pepper melon sky.
Hand on her skin.
The heaving begins.
The pain to which I cling
subsides as a cell divides.
Awaken to her moans and pleas.
Say, "Absent Lord, put strength in me."
I bend and break the metal bars.
I would bleed to know just who you are.
Push. Push. Push.
Push. Push. Push.
Push. Push. Push Push. Push.
Push. Push. Push Push. Push. Push.
There's a cupboard in the parlor with a figure of a man by the carvings of the tulips and a silhouetted shell who sailed a steady harbor with a not-so-steady hand, naked but his Father's former belt he wears so well.
There was a swelling in the threshold and a creaking in the floor as a thousand thoughtless rhymes assembled on the shelf while the Son and Heir of Black Holes, locked inside the drawer with some eleven Pilgrim Wives, sang "I refuse to be the twelfth!"
So he started on a plan the moment we first touched (in the sorrow-ridden kiss of our parlor-ridden lives) to be the tangle-coated lamb beneath the crooked brush and the Pilgrims [wouldn't ??? to tell the kitchen we've arrived?]
While attempting an escape through the broken metal bars, he hid behind the tulips, and when the Lord came near, I pressed against a face [to the]apothecary jars and dreamt up a proper ending that I don't assume you'd care to hear.