Death, My Personal Angel

These small pieces of prose are inspired by pictures I use for my daily wallpapers and collages I have made in the past.

(Angelic provision of Jesus Christ, O Lord, be with thee!)

My blood’s got it’s own pair of eyes now, Christ. The only blood I’ve got left.

To Death, my personal angel:

To the one who got rid of the babies and the broken bottles. I’m listening to trash indie on a speaker in the shower, shaving horizontal with the bloodstreams and the veins and watching green vines overflow on my hips like milk in the pitcher. And yeah, I’m angry.

 

 

 

I’m pissed, this sloppy red mess is all I’ve got left and the bottle hit me on the jaw and threw me in the kitchen at three am, in a puddle of my own spit. They tell me I’m a daughter of a man with stains on his hands and I believe them. They tell me my rigor mortise is setting in a few decades early and I sit back to watch the dog tags slip between my broken left tooth.

In Luke 22:43, we find Jesus in the garden again, but this time,strangling the roe bushes. The angels it on Calvary’s tree, letting apples fall from the stem to rot.

Lazarus was escorted to the snack machine when the commercials rolled, he passed while eating a corn chip. I hear the understudy is taking the job quite nicely.

Some songwriter is going to put it like this:

When there’s nothing in your face screaming

hell is the enemy,

who’s to judge when you leave this town?

The gate is open and burning, but so too

are you, and again,

the circumstantial crucified by prophecies and the

provisional holy one.