I Imitatea Memory Of Beliefthat I Do

God Went Out Of Me As If The Sea Dried Up Like Sandpaper, As If The Sun Became A Latrine. God Went Out Of My Fingers. They Became Stone. My Body Became A Side Of Mutton And Despair Roamed The Slaughterhouse.

I Would Sell My Life To Avoid The Pain That Begins In The Crib With Its Bars Or Perhaps With Your First Breath When The Planets Drill Your Future Into You.

I Can Only Sign Over Everything, The House, The Dog, The Ladders, The Jewels, The Soul, The Family Tree, The Mailbox. Then I Can Sleep. Maybe.

Of Course The New Testament Is Very Small. Its Mouth Opens Four Times As Out-of-date As A Prehistoric Monster, Yet Somehow Man-made.

Yes I Try To Kill Myself In Small Amounts, An Innocuous Occupation. Actually I'm Hung Up On It.