The Shanked God Returns

Happy Easter From My Inner Proet

Corpse down, hands up: fragrance in the morgue, borders for a body. Finish the trickster, brand him with the Roman story. Stick his meat in the skulldome for the poors to take a picture. No riots when they’re pitched from the schadenfreude, words from a dead tutor. But she had a dream. No dreams for the bonedry, shrines for the dry eyed. But she had a dream. No dreams for the stainskins getting out of hand. But she had a dream. No dreams for the Nazarene loudmouths mothing to the flame, all you perps who don’t know when to run. Thank God it’s Friday every day lest the streets run black with the shadow of a shanked god. Creeping to the window in the early light, you spy a rumor fleeting through the underbrush. The water you ran over rundown hands, a storm in corporeal form. Is it a crouching spring coiled for a flood? We put lead in the water so they’d thirst for flint, fuck the people with the peals of a cracked bell. Is that a river ringing for the ruler? We put the PD on the barricades with rubber bullets for the bottlepissers. Is that a fountain following me? But she had a dream.

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