swaddling plot

every sabbath eve in my rape dreams I swaddle christ’s body in spray-on glitter & kitty litter
as in, literal pedigree: we bred a savior from king david and a rainstorm spitting brain matter
simultaneously baby, rave zombie, & crane-lifted detonator, watch how he weeps for the seepage 
to fall down—after all, that was what the forty days were all about: god’s very first constipation 
blackout, when fountains of garden/flood penance blood stopped him up, and all he could muster 
was bad manna and hate the size of a mustard seed. but don’t nitpick this ardently faulty 
arithmetic, for the Old Testicles always give rise to the New—the gospel of it’s-all-true, so are 
you saved or screwed? bathed or bruised? he became just like a regular jew, except with more pin-
points to prove, like perfection according to whom? the narrative arc of this covenant is askew
so no more dumping the bodies of godheads I once blew: I’ll wrap them up in exfoliant seaweed 
& roll them like snow into forts. I can never remember the ending right though—something 
about cyborg nuns running a whorehouse and a sex act in which I am swallowed whole 
and then vomited off into satellite orbit
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