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J. Walter Braman Feb 2010
My mother would scream

You're a failure

You'll end up a janitor

She wanted what was best

for her.

This house is a slum

Boy scouts, age 8

Steven and Mike

You ugly little beasts

Curtis

you fat ****

Fell like a man?

What is a man?

I have no clear image

Like painting an image

except an image is imagined

No clear model

No clear picture

No wonder

I'm ******
J. Walter Braman Feb 2010
You go through my veins

Like Alcohol

or blood

But my body

My imperfect body

is clumsy

My fingers fail to move

So I grab your neck harder

And I stretch my fingers

Slap

Slap

Slap

Nothing

Works.
J. Walter Braman Feb 2010
The shovel hits the dirt in softened thunks

I hope you come up whole, and not in chunks

You’re buried deep, at six feet down

Was she buried in jeans or in a gown?

I hope to be your Romeo from a thousand romance plays

Nevermind, I think you know what dead girls can’t say

Nilsen gave me some sage advice

Don’t ever go to the same yard twice

And don’t toss the old ones in the sink

That’s one good way to get tossed in the clink

Six feet of dirt now to my side

You’re coming with me, you’re taking a ride

You thought the hearse was the last of your life

Don’t be daft, honey, you’ll soon be my wife!

Your coffin smells, my dear it’s true

It is no matter, I love your blue

Skin, your thinning hair

Into your fading eyes I stare

As I caress

That cold dead spot

Beneath your dress

I hope, my dear, you don’t mind the trunk

My head is swimming; am I in love or just drunk?

Oh, if you look upon my trunk with dread

Would help to think of it as a marital bed?

Maybe some wine to get in the mood, with you by side

Just the moonlight a pint of the Wild I

I know some look upon me strange

And some would call my love deranged

They don’t understand, they’re far too ******

This isn’t a curse, just a hobby

If they saw me like this I know they’d panic

But I’m not crazed, on drugs or manic

I feel peace when I see your lipless smile

I know I’m just a harmless necrophile.
J. Walter Braman Feb 2010
On your crucifixtion day, take a gift from me

It didn’t cost a cent, I made it all for free

You’ll love it like you did Mary Magdaline

A small glimpse of the world after you go off and die for sin

I’m a man of words, I hope you’ll stick around

You don’t have a choice, those nails are in there pretty sound

As you’re dying of dehydration and hematadrosis

Know that now in court, people blame you for their psychosis

A father hears a voice tells him to **** his kid

You’re responsible for more infant deaths than SIDS

Another man fills a pipe with nails; a clinic up in flames

And the inspiration derives from your holy name

The Holy Crusades, now that’s a delight

Did you know they actually sent children to fight?

It’s true, and in your name no less

I’ll tell you right now, it was not a success

They next denied the holocaust

But never you think all is lost

They’re right on board with marrying gays

Oh wait, I messed up that last phrase

I don’t think you fathom the harm to come

The damage that’s done because you’re the son

Of the holy god, my former employer

Before I was keeper of killers and lawyers

Heres some advice, take it from me

You’re wasting your time, get off that tree

Get down, and have a long talk with your father

Tell him “**** ‘em all, and next time try harder.”
This poem is based on "The Last Temptation of Christ." Loosely.

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