Doubt—dirt—blood—there is no bliss in the house of God.
How do you keep your shit together? You piss in the house of God.
He walks and does not walk. To hear him, not ears but fear.
To see? Wear fire. Bullet and ballad kiss in the house of God.
Like a trembling tower of fruity gelato,
ladies and gentleman—my vibrato.
The moon swallowed the sun in one mouthful;
kept her maw open wide—spit him out full.
On the days she feared he’d devour her,
she fed him sweet treats to keep his snout full.
We cry out for peace like a prayer.
We yank weeds on our knees like a prayer.
Rays crisp Renée’s pepper plants to umber;
sprouts speak their final pleas like a prayer.
It may be in the sky, in sand, in dream you’ll find your Self.
For some, the search may never end. Don’t give up! Trust yourself!
Whatever you do, don’t sell your soul in discovery.
There will be those who’ll claim you, as if you are some “whore” self.
