The Christ-Davidian Mesomorph

Posted by Erik Moshe on Monday, February 24, 2014 Under: Poetry

Cyanide alloy stumped the line of chemists
who had come to the space station obituary
for a classify
dead Jihad code didn't belong in the morning oatmeal packets
for God's sakes

Nobody dies in the vacuum called exponentia
when their hand is placed on a bible
and a respectable goatee plods about the edifice
of a chin. This is, essentially, oracle in the mirror stuff

Regularly Constantine, the coffeemaker in
the main galley keeps spurning out Old Earth potions
periwinkle turpentine's, neolithic chlorine, dusted liquor
agent orange muck lactates, the whole lot...
What can arise from a steaming pile of quantum refuse
isn't strange, isn't easily rejected as a falsification
an olfactory scent transfigures the amygdala
of a large spirit planet and flushes flotsam
directly into the canisters of Godbody Brain
Noah walks on water filled with sandals -
zero gravity keeps his curvy shoulder cuffs stout
you'll only find him dead lifting animals on Sundays

Circles of Eden never close...
trebuchets heave loaves of sour bread dough
straight out of Megiddo and into your gym sauna
The willow trees are bleeding like sap wolves
This city is under siege, and shakshouka caresses
the gates of every divine facility
during the Seven Days of Uncreation
reversed Khaldun mechanics
sent down the wrong choleric half pipe
(demented fitness routines, Volume 1, unabridged)

"Sewers" in the glossary of the holy book
is defined with an acrylic drawing:
the froggish prince wages prohibition
on an egg nog lake and its inhabitants, yet unlike
salty water, you can drink this drought
of immoral porridge, which is loaded with proteins
messianic musculature guaranteed

Can't breathe up here in Nirvana's iron shantytown,
This is no tier of unconscious trauma
exorcists don't dance to Zion dub-step
or carry vials of skin soap in their rabbinical coats
Open the medicine chest;
retrieve a bottle of Jesus' arm sweat, please
A fourteenth disciple's handkerchief soaks it up
and begins making body gains

Skipping leg day is original sin

In : Poetry 

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