You’ve become as soft as your ever-soft prick.
It’s all gone to hell.
I bet you thought it would be different, being human.
Poetry is only a moment.
I write what I feel, and I let it go.
We point at the path of sticky entrails and we blame you.
There is mad, mad joy to be found.
This can’t bode well, can it?
Living in my head, it’s not such a bad thing.
Not my personal Jesus.