this clear-eyed boy fucking the
corpse of your false king,
puts the barrel of the gun in just deep enough
to draw blood,
just close enough to heaven to scrape
pieces of chrome from the sunburnt sky,
and then what’s left after the
rapture but addiction?
who talks about love
in the age of slaves?
we will drive golden spikes through
god’s corrupted heart
and laugh at the sound of his pain
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