I place myself down in waiting

upon weeping crosses crafted

from sponges; rendered fragile


by vanilla plumage. Their art:

imitate salvation. Imitation is

flattery—imitation is mockery.


Salvation is fragile, anemic as

pastoral sexuality. Give flight,

exorcised semen that parrots


godly egos: echoing glass

stained in abstinence, pews

that even weigh perceptions


of color as sinful. Windows

fertilize lumber with white

caws. Imitation is mockery.


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Hello, fellow bundle of nerves and flesh! I'm a simple little being who's half-poet, half-scientist, and all gelatinous chaos. Sort of like an illogical marshmallow. If you'd like to learn more, please seek out the "First Impressions" page. Thank you for the visit, bundle friend.

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