Praise the Load

Angels falling into

Candles with broken wicks,
Can this money make me
The greatest lover with
The whitest mouth you’ll kiss?

Biting back, ’take my tax
From your thick artery;
Darkness licks up the floor—
Your lifeless form under

Boards, married to my gash—
I dig meaning out of
My Self so hastily,
Nails dirtied with one wish:

Lord, please let me have this.

Mercy at the door, your
Flesh distills more bled bliss
Than success possesses;
Wet with sweat more tasteless

Than our best marathon
Lets us finish in; when
I’m gone, it’ll get—I
promise—better than this.

Inheritance fills one;
Hunger doesn’t exist.
Once you’re read, your words just
Fix up your emptiness.

That’s what the good book said.