The greatest tragedy is not
That of the human sins
Screamed from the pulpits
But that of happily left alone doggy-doors for rot
-Rot, redefined,
Assigned a place between the temples,
Clean forehead, palms, fingertips,
Soapy mouths, and hair parts
Of a corpse;
Suds sundered, brow parted,
Open hands to the south
All stripped
Of any remorse.
Behold, the Soap
That will wipe away the Sin of the world
Before Lamb can;
Behold the Rope, the caking Blood
That we refuse to call a bleeding
Out [gurgggle. . .];
So we eat the cotton
And we pray for God's blessing
To the nourishment of our bodies
So we can wear the cake
And reheat it, too,
To the sundering of our souls.
Icarus with his winged condom
Weeps over a melt-down dying home;
Jezebel and her question-mark hair dyes
Gnashes at God for the baldness gene.
-r
