It is the Man who kills you
Over and over again which pains you,
And He is the only One that calls you by your given name.
He is the One that masturbates in the corner,
Clicking lamps and checking the antique furniture behind Him
For the unwanted visitors of the household He had bore,
Eating His own children and regurgitating them back out
Like the grand titan of time.
He is the great sky father to rule them all;
O KING OF KINGS,
Chewing asphalt and tar of your family's ghetto,
And sucking on your earlobes like they were berries or European cigars-
Rebuked by God, the extraordinary BELSHAZZAR!
But He is old now;
His death is written in the black hills
Of the black mountain from which He came,
And the villagers there still wait
For Him to make His habitual calls to them again, and he never does.
O how the Man is old now,
Prolonged from His glory and vigor.
And when He undresses,
Gorilla-heavy,
Hairy as an urchin is soft,
He melts in his olive-colored blubber
Like hot charcoal ice cream.
Heaving, heaving, and heaving,
The old Man cries.
Melting, melting, and melting,
His eyes but the deadest of browns,
And filled with the most scalding of abhorrence toward you.
Around Him scorn orbits His body.
Planets lost to the splendid scheme of things
Have evaporated from it.
This old Man has made them lose their rings,
And even yours from the yellow-haired bloke
Seemingly too old for you.
And you can do nothing but hate Him forever now,
Only until His head-the DWARF STAR-
Explodes.
It is too scorching for you, the hate, and his head.
Your chili-red soda pop dissipates from the opposite side of America,
And you can somehow hear His jagged insults
LURCHING through your blue-blooded veins.
But He is old now,
And He is melting,
And He is heaving,
And He is dying, too.
And yet you are still scared of Him.
Why?
You turn into a child of His again,
Afraid to be EATEN,
CHEWED,
And SWALLOWED
Like the past one hundred thousand times,
Surviving the act of being turbulently REGURGITATED
With the help of beginner's luck, that lonely red cross
Propounded by cruelty in your throat.
You are scared of that, yes that,
And seeing him again,
His planets and stars and EVAPORATION,
His insults and yelling and RIDICULOUS INDIFFERENCE.
O but a child you are!
You know this,
For you do become a child in His sight,
The big, bad BOOGEYMAN
Pleasuring himself or whatever it is he had done
By the frosted November window,
Then HIDING under your twin bed,
Silently JUDGING and perhaps waiting
For an enjointed scare with His many BABA YAGAS
While your mother sleeps,
While you sleep,
And while you grow up, dreaming of moving on.
How utterly dreadful!
