Granite church saints
with open books and pointing fingers
have certain faces and laser eyes.
A certain man
breathes finer air
than the winged lions
at his feet
and stiff eyebrows in a world of loose shoed blisters.
I am that doubting Tom
who gets by fear by fucking death
out of my thoughts.
Fucking death the same as faithing death
but quicker and less laws
faithing death is longer lasting
taking you gray
and then coughing your vital organs
into a john one day
you fall in a grave anyway.
No truth except what shatters
your thoughts away
on beds of midnight blue.