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Under my nails

nothing to the nuns

the vatican

nature decrees



Churned blood



*Excerpt Finished

Cheer up my dear,

these things happen.

But have no fear

for those things pass and then

you will rejoice

as the skies rain light−

you have a choice

to fully live your life.

Be not afraid to feel

or have a heart;

promise me you’ll steal

away with a fresh start.

Over and over again

until it stops beating and then

you’ll feel your soul floating−




My soul started gloating,

the silly shiny coating

covering everyone

peeled off.

Under my nails, it caught,

softly decaying away.








Nuns in blue,

nuns in white.

Why oh why,

would you devote your life?

Go marry Jesus Christ then!


Nun on a mountain,

nun in a box.

Doesn’t sleep but cross

legged, straight up.


Look at all the nuns

with robes of orange, stunned

they aren’t equal.

No sequel to Buddha’s peace,

not ordained to please

the monks, sexist schmucks.


Taught herself how to read

but mostly she pretends;

they let her so she’ll shut up.

No karma, no luck.









Tiger face in a vase,

fig leaves added just in case.

The devil is woman

and offers an apple;

the coffin’s a fountain,

quietly babbles.

A hole in the ceiling

but it never rains−

God’s protection

over the remains.

The houses are urns

with bees in the corners.

Heretics burned

for being skeptical mourners−

shadows. Shadows.

She stands above the rest,

with eggs dangling from her chest.









Peace shall never be.

And this, Nature decrees.

No hope,

fuck popes;

religion smothers thee.

Survival does not allow

the wolf to kiss the cow.

No prayers

sooth sayers,

you surely don’t know how.

Resources are limited,

sharing is prohibited.

No cares–


Religion, a manipulative hypnotist.



Mantis, will you pray for me?

Eternally folded fore-limbs

outstretched for prey. You

are the predator, but I beseech

thee, implore for my well being.

You are the prophet,

I am the puppet.

Compound eyes, ink blot pupils−


I am blind.


Ambush hopper profits,

shove them down your throat.

A mighty insect that chews,

choose your prey wisely.

Will you murmur a prayer for me?








A monk with all the nuns!

They gossip about things he hasn’t done.

Sexual intercourse−

social discourse−

soft skin, his coarse−

don’t touch, of course!

Of course…

Ordained monk now so shunned.







Bursts of blood,

liquid fireworks

flailing through the air.

Pools of blood,

people mixed together…

Essence blends and churns.

Raining blood from the skies

drizzles on your face.

Decaying, dried blood left

on the street never to be


washed away in this dry land.

Cold land, empty land.

Red stained land.


Violence polarizes,

death still surprises.








Hanging socks glued to canvas,

does this make it art?

Cut out crosses,

big red dots,

these men broke away

but they forgot:

scribbles aren’t noteworthy,

doodles, are just that.

Sloppiness is no excuse

for poor work produced.

What makes art, then−


I guess these days:

old farts.








The letters overlap,

the lines twist in and out.

Two hairs chasing planets,

or is it the other way around?

Dolphin tail fingers,

devils in a box;

surely this is madness,

is it not?

A red dot flashes in my eye:

the reflection of a demon’s sigh.

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