and not one of them named Christ
I would break fingers with hammers
if I thought it would do any good
but saints feel no pain
and hate you when you press against them
I should have sold my soul
in a buyer's market
but now it's dirty and useless
like an old condom
and pretty boys don't want it anyways
saints hate to get dirty
and I live in mud
who the fuck let
all those wispy eyelashed looks in here?
sleeping at my shoulder
caressing my breasts
and whispering in my ear
that they love me
but only under the right conditions
like heavy alcohol
and heavier drugs
maybe when they are deep inside you
possibly if I was drowning in the bath
or maybe falling from the sky
on fire
like a comet of whore-like intentions
and a great big fucking
ball of promises
that I was never going to keep
Charles Bukowski said,
"Find what you love and let it kill you."
but I don't think the crusty old fucker meant like this
achingly slowly
my brain on fire every night
my cunt throbbing
waiting
humped over like a toad
creeping in the night
to slip down some unsuspecting victim's throat
and squeeze the air out of their heart
fucking saints
and their saintly touch
and their saintly fucking ways
and their beautiful eyes
and flowing hair
and silken skin
and stupid fucking sympathies
fucking kill me and get it over with
love me to death
so I can get up
and get that glass of whiskey
I've been thirsting for like blood
I need a shower
and maybe a plasma transfusion
so I can linger with the ghost of your cock still inside me
and by the way
you can tell Christ
when you see him next
that I told him
he should come down here
to pound in his own goddamn nails
my hammer is broken
and I'm tired of crucifixion anyways
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