On Faith not Religion

On gospels sang on Pavarrotti voices
and dead miraculous beings praised with threnodies,
the unknown, the supernatural and most often ridiculous.
For the entire plague of demons set forth to scathe
the all-the-more evil mortals,
the gators and crocodiles of society,
the conspirators of never-ending theories,
the boiling mouths of proficient superlative word-mongers,
the hackers and innocent violators,
and the narcissistic beasts,
and toads on make up.
All applauding the anorexic mind.
All hailing the rotting dilemma of this alien race.
The alibis from squawking ducks of Mars.
And heart breakers of Juno- you thought Venus but no, Juno.
On the unintended relief of the end of the movie Inception,
the fingers tapping on the same table my groggy head lays dead.
In the belief of the seven deadly sins.
Like living while preparing for your own demise.
Bloody mouth stuffed with dirt
and the taste of it sticking to your tongue for days.
Like wishing you were dead but they say it's bad.
Like wanting to disarrange a face
or knock out a toad on drag.
Like roasting his soul in a barbecue grill,
even the thought of it is bad.
Real bad. (Smile)