The Divine Left


Craning drug caked veins into pajama pants is a man’s work

Not water to wine but wine to bad decisions

I am the less fact checked Jesus

Another heretic-hermaphrodite ignorant

That my father needs to be a king for me to be a prince


I stretch my canvas across a horse quartered line

Walked across by the Swahili tongue swirlers

These strokes are done with the more passive of war paints

The more muted tones uttered by rusted trumpets

This song plays with the drum beat of my illusive breath


As I swallow Christ fish without a chew

Crane my neck and eat all my gospel before cake

I walk these desert "foot-paths" with my greying feathers

Snatched from the globes ceiling; souvenired from the dismantling Sistine

And I calmly turn psalms in my palm; only as busy work


Published at Danse Macabre