the lapsed zealot jonesin for daddy

to wit          
     to riddle          
       this spittle          
to you            
       defendant  author            
 of these deeds            
      by virtue of          
the accomplice  of          
      your eyes to          
   the murder          
of understanding            
         in this muddled missive  
        
to you            
  dead reader            
no less            
     than to HE            
whom friedrich            
    declared "ist toot"      
 that is "tot" (as in dead)            
        god that is and            
  not god is a fart  
     like some          
    gassed out  star or          
bad smell we  
   had to air out           
          but o to whiff you again            
   even olfactory hopes  
though putriid may           
        beat this nose cut            
  off to spite our face            
nihilism of nothing      
    in the bombed           
  church of our minds            
where  we            
     sometimes still            
 rap knocked(up) prayers
     like thrown rocks
 in the night            
          at the glory of your            
 color stained dreams  
     and  don('t)  our gay            
apparel of appearances            
     to dress your delusion            
of this ill-usury            
         we owe for the stolen            
 knowledge of apples          
           and what pay we with            
for this life on loan            
    for this deficit of            
of days            
    killing your son  with thorns          
was never enough            
         you knew we'd          
come for your throne next      
          but the richness of our            
madness proves insufficient            
    to rule kingdom come    
          what now            
     what now