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The Skeletons
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Our Paradise
Self-flagellation in the under-croft
Whip drawing red as he masturbates in shame over his own suffering
A cockroach crawling into his mind; barbed limbs twitching, burrowing – it hissed like radio static
'I am the voice of God'
His revelation came somewhere between the blood and cum
A straight razor and a whore would be his altar
Fading like a fever dream we drove out of the long metal tunnel
Still high on shrooms, we turned off of the freeway onto the open desert road
Night Sky
And I felt like I could reach out and tear the skin off the stars
I turned up the radio and took a long drag from the joint
She turned to me and asked 'do you believe in Heaven?'
I told her that I did
We swerved and mowed down the hitchhiker
I could hear him screaming for help almost instantly
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Frenzied, we started to fuck in the night heat – primal and furious
He was gasping and gagging on his own blood as we writhed silhouetted against the now rising sun
I saw him watching us like some pitiful voyeur, and I felt sick
They say sex is art
But death…
Death is truly art
And I do believe in Heaven but I know the Lord has abandoned us
Our paradise must be sculpted on Earth from this squalid flesh; an affront to an Old, Redundant God
I carve at flint, at rocks, at bones – sharpening and strengthening; Neanderthal warfare
I take the makeshift axe in my hand
And walk down the oncoming lane of the highway towards the setting sun
Screaming at the sky
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