Dormant, annelid scars
creep and split along her breastbone: gravid,
patient Hydra--mocking, restless, hungry,
blind--immune to my reflections.
I deserve those scars.
Theists, shut your foolish mouths,
or I will stopper them with wormcasts,
stopper them with bone-dry earth,
rife with hookworms and with heartworms from your pious shit.
Higher mysteries do not concern me.
This is simple.
This is wrong.
Copyright John D Porter © 1997
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