The Thin Bug

I was cut from the same cloth as god

And now im going to eat a piece of divine flesh i cut from this unaware being

Why is it that it’s praised, and i am left to rot?

We are all left to rot on this thin plastic plain,

And we praise the single escapee— even though it never came back for us.

Im quite sure that one day we will claw our way out of the overflowing hell,

And we will find ourselves suffocated in freedom, all bloodied knuckles and nailless fingers

We are likely to emerge not quite human (just as it did)

And we will journey to find our betrayer and crucify it against the empyrean,

Blazing stars piercing through sinew in place of iron nails,

A burning crown of star-fire melting into flesh and burning through divine skull

An infliction of conscience

We will celebrate this rectification of our worries and dance and sing

There’s an angel at the bus stop across the road

Mostly shrouded in shadow and cigarette smoke

The darkness behind it seems to swallow everything but not it, no,

The harsh fluorescent glow from its halo cuts through all

Pocket knife in left hand,

Right hand infected with something hungry

Useless appendage hanging from the wrist,

Proof of pain.

There’s an angel standing in a field of young wheat

The rising sun forms it’s halo in this picture of tranquility

Everything is blue-grey with an overlay of bright gold

It was told it can return to the empyrean when it harvests all the wheat that is yet to turn gold

In wait of the metamorphosis it stands still,

Left hand holding a silver scythe,

Right hand clutching cicada wings

It stands, unmoving, among the new musical grasses.

There’s an angel in a familiar kitchen,

You remember it being easier to get to

Music plays in the background,

Warm light from the lamp reflects off its golden halo.

You stand there staring at each other, something floral brewing in the teapot on the bench

In your left hand you hold Jenga

1. I make lists of reasons i should be put down for ethical reasons

2. None of this is real

A mind so wretched, so putrid,

Conjuring blasphemies so very severe they escape through the eyes and boil away into the atmosphere

One so sinful it pollutes the very atmosphere

One that used to be wondrous and used to be clean

Now wracked by infection

Abscess of evil inflicting immorality and hurt upon those who witness this creature

But this can be remedied with the marvels of modern medicine!

A prosthetic mind born of ceramic and metal

One that won’t allow vacancy or any other deviation

Perfect drone,

Smooth plastic clone

Won’t you fly for us?

Won’t you live for us?

Won’t you die for us?

This ideal creature haunting the roof-top edge inspires others to rid themselves of their defects

Crucified in example, this display betters society

But this prosthetic is wholly inflexible

It will not allow growth, it will not allow the original humanity

And so this small tale of illness fixed

Nothing i write has any meaning to it, simply an arrangement of words i like. Some people find meaning in what i post but i cant seem to. Each poem is like one of those puddles that seem really deep but are less than like,,, a centimetre.