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.