The Body

Close and closed and frequent conversation  
where the fried sky bleeds peach,  
words freeze like unopened buds in ice  
waiting to be melted by Lucifer's dusted fingertips.  
Her blue hands flutter, signing the death of fish
on the wet. Her white eyes predict the plague.
 
Cruel clusters of stars set out stealing Heaven's  
brother, behind the smoke screen
where the Lord broke down
under gallons and gallons of petrol
to get us home
with sparklers of misused faith.
 
I ingest the map He hands me, with laughter.
Judas licks my holy wounds and adds a purity ring
so I may bleed out from my hands and feet,
into the river of shit
and make it clean.