God is in the right hand of the voyeur
the left hand of the massochist.
Satisfaction is in the left of the right.
The remainder of the wrong.
Where will I run when the tide comes?
When this puddle of burning liquid catches up.
Laps at my exposed toes and unprepared, aborted spirit.
When you're washing the absolution away in sin,
no doubt, some sanity is left in the wash.
When will the tide come on my parched wreck?
When does freedome come pelting us malevolently from the skies?
Where will you be when the rains come?
Huddled, shivering, starving, safe in your makeshift
constructed hastily of the bones and hide of your loved ones-
or ecstatically calling the thunderbolts to your pale naked skin?
Cut me down to the blessed core.
Wash my absolution clean
with fresh
wanton
sin.
May we never live again free.
We sing "The sun is falling."
Right out of the sky and into my waiting pocket.
May we never live free again.
