God is Dead and Everything is Sex

A poem that makes no sense, and that's the point.

 

       Orange juice, morphine, asprin

    Scented candles, shattered vinyls 

 and dislodged Frida Khalo paintings in my ribs

     The flames of the candles slowly

    creep into my ears and melt my membranes

oh what a shame.

     Inverted bibles, broken bulbs, tampons

   in my ears. i haven't felt this alive in years

    The cold tiles on the floor drag 

   themselves up my leg and inhabit my 

 hair follicles, Maybe its a cure

    Strips of scripts, Keith Richard

   blacked out, red pens drawing blood

 from my veins, Pentax camera shooting

nomadic pornos

    Stars breaking my eyes into pages 

   Jim Morrison making love in Catholic heaven

   Friedrich Nietzsche screaming 

"GOD IS F*****G DEAD"

crinkled veins and straight shots of 

adrenaline to the heart.

Author's Note

Tell me what you think.