The Steeple People Made Me Do It
The steeple-people made me do it.
The nipple snatchers, they gave me erotic chores to make the punishment go faster. But the steeple-people, with their vestry breasts and buttock altars, they made me do it.
An altercation with the overhole.
We are friendly cherub here, tubby in a grotesque farm fantasy kind of way.
Strictly, you shouldn’t let your brain slide out of its epicentral crevice. There is nothing like zealot cheese. Deus ex vino. If God is in the wine, then let’s all sharpen our foreskins and order reef and beef at our local restaurant which has no wine.
The rivers in the bible don’t have tributaries, only retributaries.
Garlic globules are leaking from my larynx. Worm’s heads sclinter in and out of a Ventolin crusher. My disciples gather sticks and kindling to burn me alive. And the high priest only eats bread when his sugar levels go down.
Nailed to the pressure gland, dawning with a hailstorm of manna.
(Insurance companies will not cover damage from manna.)
A riotous sermon breaks vestibule waves over the flock—heads down in the sopping grass, chewing cud like they should and making regular deposits in the collection plate.
If people are not supposed to use drugs, why did God invent crack? Why does God suffer Wyeth and Pfizer and the others when they only push a mildly overpriced version of crack?
Why do cats in a vat lightly boiled for two days taste like communion wine? Why do sheep shit in the collection plate?