A crown of thorns on my head.
I'm laughing soon,
I never asked for anything except "Why?"
An answer. "Why?"
"Why have you forsaken me?"
Sadistic isn't it?

I never mention sacrilige,
And I never talk about blasphemy.
I haven't read the Bible.
Who wrote that?
God didn't have a pen,
Yet He designed us.

I shudder. Nailed to wood. RIP.
The alcoholic flowers drink my water.
Hallelujah! Wear my pain around your neck.
**** your fellow man,
Because he must die like I did,
For his crazy beliefs.

We had an unholy alliance,
you and I.
You played the Pope,
the devil me.
You were so fine,
you turned me
sinner.
And I would do it
all over again,
just to sip
from your chalice,
break your bread,
run my fingers
through
your sacrilige,
turn my blood
into your wine.

autobiography of an animal. autobiography of a god.

lets with the sacrilige. creators who throw their creations
away are god.
abandonment
in the sense of - only survival is necessary, of - it is
natural to be abandoned. why am i so stuck on this          ?
like those   childhood manisfestations of masochism that
landed me      in
so much trouble                                                          ­ memory
shows up in my mailbox in the form of a rabbit whose fur
is rough with herbs.