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Cody Cooke Apr 2019
The way history just happened in a way to give these words meaning —

We grew up to believe in a Jesus ,
Were raised to want somebody , something to save us ,
To need that more than the confidence to save ourselves

And then bombs killed the sun ,
And radio filled the sky with waves ,
God’s old realm become a vast ocean of voices and other sounds

And we listened to the static for something with faith ,
Something like a Jesus , somebody to save us from a modern **** nation ,
Some note of some harmony in static

And when some people started to sing and dance ,
We made them do a Jesus, spit cameras in Their faces and committed Them to celebrity ,
Painted Their faces on cities like graffiti written on the wall

And then we made a box like a church to frame Their living image ,
Put it in our living rooms, arranged our thrones around it ,
Worked overtime at the pollution office so we could see Their faces in color

And that box just got better , got sharper in vision ,
And we worshipped it like we’d finally found faith with a remote and a bag of potato chips ,
Always upgrading the box with Pandora trademarked on plastic

And now we have that box in our ******* pockets ,
All the Jesus , facts , vileness , and worthlessness of life ,
All that is bad and maybe good for our species , the size of our palm

And it recognizes our ******* face

And we wanted it this way ,
We asked for it , voted for it , fought for it
******* paid for it
Cody Cooke Mar 2019
Look at this Mess the Messiah made
You’d think He’d have kept up with things
But all he’s good for is bringing good honest people together
In a place where it’s easy to ******* shoot them
Cody Cooke Mar 2019
They found a dead body in Bayou D’Inde
Said he washed up on Thursday afternoon
That February water was real real cold
When old man drowned
I ‘member hearin’ bout that dead body at school
Same as when they found a lady’s head in Cameron Parish
Reminds me when I found an old ice chest by the pond
Full of dead *****
Nobody notices **** anymore
The world ain’t watchin’
It’s too busy texting and driving on the bridge
To care if anyone jumps
Cody Cooke Mar 2019
God was a mask
that we put on the sun ;
A name for the nameless energy ,
A face for the force of life

Go beyond the name of God
to touch that light that God refers to ;
Become acquainted with the reasons
for war and *** and art —

Listen to Music
Cody Cooke Feb 2019
I just want pink—

**** blacks
**** whites
**** blues
**** browns
**** green paper
**** gray music
**** yellow jewelry
**** red sports cars
**** your friends and **** your family and
**** the colors they spill on you
**** the color of your phone
**** the color of your flag
**** the color of your people
**** the color of your paycheck
**** the idea of rainbows , ‘cause they
**** with the idea of libido
**** the makers of rainbows , ‘cause they
**** things they don’t love
**** the protection of rainbows , ‘cause they
**** with our hormones
**** the beauty of a rainbow , ‘cause
rainbows aren’t beautiful at all
**** anyone who worships a color’s name and not its smell
**** anyone who doesn’t want a color put to ****

I just want pink—
Your wet , sensitive flesh : pink
Cody Cooke Feb 2019
A small black box with gold trim, a serious palm-sized thing. Its leather is the opaque ironic touch of what it stands for: a promise that always gets taken back. You open it and find the roof of its mouth slick white, a velvet tongue below, a strip of fabric like the flat words of forgotten vows. You know that something should be there; that’s what a promise is, right? But it’s empty, and you’re left only imagining the idea of a diamond
Cody Cooke Feb 2019
They call me the Adam bomb ,
like I’m to be dropped over Eden ,
make flames of the birds in the sky
and name all of the wild beasts ash .
I am built of war and steel ,
still , stoic power ,
tucked up under this giant winged-thing ,
an egg ready to burst uranium yolk .

Hear the mechanic buzz of annihilation
as I’m carried to my glorified purpose .
From heaven , earth is gone ;
there’s only the dark and the loud machines ,
then the click ,
and then the floor opens .
I hover above white cloud-smears ,
feeling like Icarus : the power of the sun .
My cold creators with flat eyes and gloved hands
exchange a look
then I’m falling —

Sky screams , going down ,
I am neither Judgement nor Redemption .
I am not Grace; I am not the Fall ;
I am both the End and the Means ,
the “what Men stood for” , plummeting ,
wailing , ******—
the sound of the end .
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