Friday, February 24th, 2017 – 4:53 pm
Feed the bastard. Cover her breasts. Clean their mess.
Someone will endure the smells of their hells and beds and cells. He’ll thank them at the throne for peering past his broken gates and his punctured, bruised branches. She’ll spin from his red-eyed stench and his sick and the whiff of his family shame and he’ll repay their kindness in the final day.
He stirs with blue birds and hides in hell each morning in hopes we’ll follow. He cast off his three person suit and buried it under a bridge with a bottle and both gold rings. He gave up his three and third degrees and crawled into dusty rocks, swirling around third rails. You can still hear the echos of his last few whines under the rock hymns and taunts of a third of the angels.
Fill the seats to hear that he lives in the hearts and streets. Tear more chairs and hope someone rises up to flip over tables and cast out crooks. Turn whips on the weak and pray for rain that could never land inside. Burn more myrrh, bury the scent of addicts and time. Turn up the dead drums and drown out the bleeding ghost and bleating goats.
Pray for him to pray for him to pray for her to pray for saints to pray for me to pray for you to pray for sinners.
You’ll see. Don’t move. Just watch.
Mewl for mules and missionaries and pant for profits and prophets, so someone else might feed the lazy and selfish and beat our swords into song hooks and our gyms into jails and our clubs into children’s wards.
Pray for someone to be born and raised and loving and trained to face her tears once again, and again and again and again, even when her face keeps changing, each time one more fairy tale is ripped away in death of desire and such a small splash of red.
Imagine it. New stories. Good Book.
We’ll sing songs of the old and new days, when we cast away choking chains and metal crosses and of the endless night we picked up his wooden one to drive like a stake.
But, until then.
Settle for the chilling smiles and tales of how hollow words can help the hungry. Bend and bother but never break the mold and moldy bread. Blow over embers of older feelings, long lost to freeing the fearful.
Never gaining ground from the glory of goats and their glittered Gaols.
Some fool. Some bum. Some sheep.