stare.

Daylight burns like Grandma’s shame
Staring down from wedding cake Valhalla
Folding chairs and wonder bread and cups of
Water from the holy sewage tap.

Thousand little sun-eyed bastards edging
Reading Ronald Reagan’s horoscope, so
Mad they got those faggy microplastics
Not some heavy metal shit.

Stalk the halls and find some lines to claim for
Sovereigns of great estates of thought and
Wait for some poor sap to step across and
Melt them with the sacred solar flare.

PRAISE THE LORD! —

You fucking fools! You think the body bags
Are for the chalked out lines that limn the corpse
And that the flesh is just more useless mass,
Yet you in all this wisdom call me fool?

You patchwork mess of neoprene and brass
You empty vessel for a priesthood’s law
Just give a damn for once, don’t sit demure
While saintlings laugh and make their roadkill dance.

No coroner would find a wound that mars
The flank of your new viral Twitter Christ
Yet here you are, indulgent still. You won’t
Have ever dropped your petty little fights.

— KEEP THIS UP —

You lost all claim to be a holy man
The day you gathered kindling for the pyre
If there was justice in this wretched world
These crimes would hound you ’til your dying day.

— AND YOU’LL FIND ME A GRAVE MAN!