One Brutal Friend
Closer than my own spleen,
he calls me buddy.
“Hey, buddy!”

As if struck by a fever,
a silent malady,
he changed—
morphed into a beast,
a movie beast.
An ogre.

Where did the grandiose come from?
What street did you drag that arrogance down?
A lack of empathy,
a thirst for admiration so cruel
it drowns reason.

But he wasn’t born like this.
I knew him long ago—
when “the floor is lava” was gospel,
his bike had no spokes,
and breaking curfew was unthinkable.

Now he calls me.
Then hangs up.
Then calls again—different number.
Games.

I don’t like it.
Don’t call my second phone.
I stole it.

You don't know how wroth I feel,
You don't know.
It is better to swallow my own *****,
Gurgle my own bile down this sore throat.
You said you're ugly?
Can we trade?

It is better I wouldn't be this,
It robs my peace.
But it's not the first time,
Is it?

I took the spear,
*****, rusty spear, ugly.
I throbbed my own gut, repeatedly until I stopped bleeding.
And when my guts were hanging on the floor,
I waited till the crimson dried.

And when my entrails lay glistening on cold stone,
I took the Spear, and hurled it towards my creator.
Ooh how I repent!
I repent my God!
My heart is broken. Fragments.

I have one to blame, yes I do.
I.

But I have one to thank,
Him will I highly glorify, highly exalt.
pure as a lamb, mighty in glory.
Christ! Christ! Christ!

My King and My Lord I repent.
Can I put this filth on you? On those anvil shoulders?
Yea?
Why?


I repent!

"From dust to dust", they say.
so what are we?
wet clay?

Nah, that's not me.
I'm a ***,
Sculpted in the palms of the Divine.
Designed in holy thoughts,
Crafted craftily.

And so, the ***.
Marred in the hands of the potter.
Tempted to loathe itself
and cast it's image on the ground,
let's weep.

But then something,
The vessel that was marred in the hands of the potter,
was made into a new vessel.
Praise the Lamb of God!