Wednesday, March 18, 2009

The Vanity of Deities

With the blood on her lips she began to draw. Make me bleed some more she demanded of God. I'm not finished.

Coloring in all these sparse utopias with which you've infected our skin. Barren is all we are. Flaccid puppets on strings made of your wasted semen. Helpless cockroaches. With their prickly legs to heaven. At the mercy of gods too squeamish to step on us once and for all.

I'm not done. She screeched as the blood began to congeal in her cuts. You're weak God. Weaker than all of us. A stick blind men poke at the darkness with.

You're sad. God. Much sadder than us. An old man with his wrinkled penis in his fist. Coddling an erection that doesn't keep.

You're a small god. Too petty for us. That you should need something so fragile as us. That you would condemn us to live. So long after we mean nothing to this world.

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