the sunday morning smell
reeking fiercely
of the deepest circle in hell,
faces of eternity
bonded together
like blown glass -
swirled and colored
sin physical art.
awake, alarm clock
blood and coffee,
better than creamer -
digging graves
on the sabbath,
heel gripping to death
grip and dig
shovel to earth.
the smell of bodies
on sunday morning
(god, the stench),
life decaying in imagination.
the damned.
the fucking damned.
my foot exposed
from the grave,
footless, i stumble
staring at my own burial,
shovel and intention
in hand
i etch on stone,
"here, i mean nothing.
here, i mean everything.
this is not my stopping place."
not even the last words
of the world, my world
i've died more than once,
i'll die again.
same shovel
and pen to tell.
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