DREAM TRASH
The god habit is hard to kick. We do mounds of Jesus Dust off squares of foil, inhaling curls of white smoke through thin bone tubes. We're down in the black water. Down in the dead, salt tide. Low as a soul can go and keep this sack of skin intact. It's better here. The Jesus Dust lifts you on white smoke Hallelujahs and makes you into light. The darker you start, the hotter you burn.
We are dream trash. The detritus of the Unconscious. Alive or deluded by shabby memories of a meat life? I'm the last to say for sure. Baubles float by. Snow globes full of needles. Prosthetic limbs. Burning flowers. A man's flayed, tattooed skin. Demon jellyfish whisper and promise us Paradise, if only we'll open up for them. Be their brides and dissolve in their masterful fuck-touch. I kiss their gelatinous heads and suck them into my maw, stingers raking all the way down. I whisper to them, "I will give thee the treasures of darkness, and hidden riches of secret places, that thou mayest know that I, the Lord, which call thee by thy name, am the God of Israel."
Jesus Dust is good and sometimes it's better. You lose yourself in waves of omnipotence. Am I God? In the mind of God? Or just watching God's TV? Speak to me little fish, Jehovah's sacrifice, Sin Eater, Divine Whipping Boy. Fill my head with your holy smoke through this cracked tube. Chipped edges slice my lips. "Drink of this, for it is my blood." The last jellyfish wobble in the sewage tide. Burning drums of trash dot the beach, giving off little light and no heat, but painting the shadows the color of blood and pumpkins.
God is in the water. In the fecal matter flakes drifting on the breeze from the dump down the coast. In the blood turning to dust in my veins. Is it true, then? Is Jesus Dust the ground bodies of other addicts? A hundred years ago, they ground mummies into paint and tinctures. Powder me. Crush me. Pulverize my existence into the angelic trash heap on the ass-side of Heaven's peeling trailer park gates. The come-down from God is too hard. Burn me and smoke my guts, for this is my flesh. Let me become light in the black water. Amen.
The god habit is hard to kick. We do mounds of Jesus Dust off squares of foil, inhaling curls of white smoke through thin bone tubes. We're down in the black water. Down in the dead, salt tide. Low as a soul can go and keep this sack of skin intact. It's better here. The Jesus Dust lifts you on white smoke Hallelujahs and makes you into light. The darker you start, the hotter you burn.
We are dream trash. The detritus of the Unconscious. Alive or deluded by shabby memories of a meat life? I'm the last to say for sure. Baubles float by. Snow globes full of needles. Prosthetic limbs. Burning flowers. A man's flayed, tattooed skin. Demon jellyfish whisper and promise us Paradise, if only we'll open up for them. Be their brides and dissolve in their masterful fuck-touch. I kiss their gelatinous heads and suck them into my maw, stingers raking all the way down. I whisper to them, "I will give thee the treasures of darkness, and hidden riches of secret places, that thou mayest know that I, the Lord, which call thee by thy name, am the God of Israel."
Jesus Dust is good and sometimes it's better. You lose yourself in waves of omnipotence. Am I God? In the mind of God? Or just watching God's TV? Speak to me little fish, Jehovah's sacrifice, Sin Eater, Divine Whipping Boy. Fill my head with your holy smoke through this cracked tube. Chipped edges slice my lips. "Drink of this, for it is my blood." The last jellyfish wobble in the sewage tide. Burning drums of trash dot the beach, giving off little light and no heat, but painting the shadows the color of blood and pumpkins.
God is in the water. In the fecal matter flakes drifting on the breeze from the dump down the coast. In the blood turning to dust in my veins. Is it true, then? Is Jesus Dust the ground bodies of other addicts? A hundred years ago, they ground mummies into paint and tinctures. Powder me. Crush me. Pulverize my existence into the angelic trash heap on the ass-side of Heaven's peeling trailer park gates. The come-down from God is too hard. Burn me and smoke my guts, for this is my flesh. Let me become light in the black water. Amen.