The eyes have only
their childhood
I only believe in god because of how long god takes
to kill my children.
Anyway, live.
Scare touch.
God’s stomach is a cigarette trying to eat on the moon. I am asleep in my homage to sleep. In hell you have to give birth to everyone you’ve killed. You can’t have your kids.
God died doing math in a nightmare. Not everyone was able to hide the body. Men without mothers bit themselves thinking it would lead to nakedness. Angels did the same but thought nothing. Fire chased an empty bus past the cemetery of the three things I couldn’t name. Into a small life of startled handguns, people in photos were born. Gameshows, I said plainly, above a hole the ground touches for being hungry.
No one told me I was crying.
Here is what I thought:
It can’t get lonelier
than the birth of god.
My ribs had a message
for a toothache. Babies
are never
young.
Today's reading with Tim Tim Cheng was a restoring and taken thing. Please check it out on the 'I Think I Can't Speak For Everyone Here' youtube channel. Previous readings are listed here.
Fingernails, seashells, toothpaste, breastmilk
Bring
this bomb
into heaven
( or maybe I hide my daughter in a ghost and these are the ghost years lost to the god of fast food whose son is a hunger pain whose son is a hunger whose son’s childishly staged crucifixion shocked time into a fomo that found eating to be a bone from an extra past where I practice chewing upside down get pregnant for no one
kingsoftrain 