A Stoned Vision of the Muck

O Piepulcratus You,

Stoned! Stoned! Stoned! As I suck the air you breathe to tell you of God’s Word: numbing numbness spreading rose blankets of knife-edged silence over the dead, seeing neither wound nor blood, nose-to-nose with smoke words of policy, droning before the pale flesh bulldozed into muddy trenches, anointing the earth with their fluids while the knife-edged silence bellows wordless platitudes and pieties into the deaf ears of the dead, words creased and pressed before the tangled mass; numb, numb, wingtips dead to seeing, dead to hearing, polished wingtips dancing lightly over steaming gore, preaching puffs of smoke, dissipated by fetid air heavy with the cries of broken babies, ribboned pacifiers around their shattered necks; wingtips dancing the minuet of the frozen, spreading rose petals over the rain-drenched piles of freshly bulldozed muck.

Yours,
Whothefuckknowswhothefuckcares