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Our Prophets
Jesus was a carpenter but he never built my house.
Muhammad had his Mecca but I got too dizzy.
And Buddha, well he just ate all the leftovers.
The only vestiges of spiritual vice left are for the broken
The cracks and crevices are where you’ll find our prophets.
Our preachers sing hymns on bully pulpits to failure’s flock.
Foretelling Armageddon in the distance between CC’s in a sacrificial syringe.
We are everywhere and nowhere: mother, father, son, daughter.
The fix, the prick, and the sick.
Our holy trinity painted with blood, shit and sorrow.
Praying just to wake up to repeat another terrible tomorrow.
There is no forgiveness written in our ancient texts.
No redundancy redo’s to rehash the sad rituals.
Only time to which our hour glasses have been shattered
Fragments left of lives in infinities finite grasp.
If there ever was a junkie messiah preaching heroin heresy.
Most of us have missed our calling in-between nefarious nods.
All we have is our pusher pope, a vermin of Allah’s alleyways.
Ready to fix us with the only tragedies we know, only to break us even more.
Jesus raised Lazarus, but I was too lethargic to listen.
Muhammad had his virgins but he was always fucking me.
And Buddha, well he was just a naïve fat bastard.
