god died, this morning.
she did.
yeah, for real.
she's out there, worm-ridden,
lying next to the cratered carcasses
of bomb-blasted balkan babies,
beneath the wept willow tree
(he has run out of tears, you see).
god died, this morning.
she did.
i'm not joking, man.
she's out there, maggot-infested,
sprawled atop the faceless frames
of twice-thrashed tutsi toddlers,
beside the silent robin's den
(he has run out of songs, my friend).
god died, this morning.
she did.
it's the truth, b.
she's out there, vulture-picked,
straddling the empty eyelids
of artillery-addled angolan adolescents,
near the bone-dry ancient stream
(he no longer has a source, it would seem).
god died, this morning.
she did.
i'm serious, yo.
she's out there, rat-knawed,
gripping the lost limbs
of grenade-gutted guyanese grownups,
across from the vacant flowerless gulch
(he has lost his hope, for mulch).
god died, this morning.
she did.
make no mistake, g.
she's out there, dog-bitten,
holding the hollowed hearts
of pistol-pounded palestinian pensioners,
behind the orchard that begs for renewal
(he has withered forever, you fool).
