Morning / Resurrection

Morning has broken, like a fucking bottle,  
shattering into smithereens, as the shards of  
fiery needles sting and tear at your flesh.
The wine was drained a long time before.
Like the first morning, when you can’t stand up,
 because of the blinding pains in your temples,
 and the rising puke that burns the back of your throat.
The bitter taste of betrayal and denial.
Blackbird has spoken, shouted, a tirade of fucking insults,
 driving you back to the safety of your piss soaked sheets,
 where you hide from the scalding sunlight.
Until they drag you before your peers.
Like the first bird, Sitting judgementally,
 mocking your emaciated body and withering prick,
laughing as you bury yourself deeper into the bed.
Hiding and seeking strength, pleading.
Praise for the singing, as you drift away in delirium,  
sinking into the marshmallow mattress,
suffocating as you breathe in the feathers of turtle doves.
Lifted and stretched to die in the sun.
Praise for the morning, as you burst from the other side of the mattress,
 and spew blood and semen onto the marble floor of the cathedral,  
clergy stand like rabid puritans waiting to punish and condemn.
Scourging and lashing with excited eyes
Praise for the springing , as they beat you with holy righteousness,
 stabbing your slight pain addled frame, kicking punching  
sodomising and castrating you, until you fall and lie still.
Oblivion the sweet reward for sacrifice
Fresh from the word, awakening, ascension, as you rise, your broken and abused body,  
an empty vessel, you look down on the cunts that persecuted you,  
and you forgive them, they just didn’t know what they were doing.  
They didn’t know what they were doing.
Did they?