mainsqueeze's Diaryland Diary

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machina

hand of god machine of god
hand of god machine of god
hand of god heavy and hot on you,
whispering into your innocent baby ear,
"i will give you this, but you will never have that,"
and your newborn eyes, plucked from
a crone who died clutching her dry belly,
your eyes turn toward it, toward
the thing you will never have but will desperately want for your entire life;
machine of god, with your gifts, cut like a knife, cut like a knife, cut like a knife and the deeper it slides in the louder you will scream at the ceiling of the place that is crumbling around you;
with those dying yellow eyes that slice through meat and muscle and fat and shave away, bit by bit, the brittle bones beneath the skin on the hand of god,
the machine of god listens as he howls and watches as he falls to the floor, and the machine of god walks wild and filthy to him and says, "i believe that you have something of mine."

3:15 a.m. - 2006-05-12

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