Judas Waiting at the Bus Stop
a victim of fashion,
vast silent infinite.
never claimed to move
mountains. never met in
the road. God hates a
coward, His Son hates
crosses burning on the
lawn. he memorized the
routes, Jamaican subways.
instead of the flavor of wine
the taste of ashes, bitter.
empty field, poor house,
barren ditch. waits on
the ketamine to kick.
anything to stay sick.
he is a rock, she is
the sea. how can he
stem the tide? a most
other wordly beauty can
be found in the singing
of the dead and distant.
lost his father to a
seance, as if Bob Ross
only painted sadness.
dogs bark in the distance.
three houses fall into the
open sea; mermaid's tears.
he feels plastic, brittle.
full of static. air is grey,
with orange clouds. the
inside of his skull swarms
angry bees, sodium steel.
his head, blood engine
red. an empty fortress
lulls him to sleep. now
choking on broken glass.
he boards in discord.
skipping final goodbyes.
now too late, he is the
victim of a facist state.
Judas Waiting at the Bus Stop
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