Hello the Devil for me, I'm going to the mines. I'll see you when I have shuttered my eyes with coal black war paint, when the fire is gone from me. I want to swing until I bleed, I want splinters driving into my flesh, I want knives prying like sickles under my fingernails. Topple the towers in a cracking mind gummed up with feathers and philosophy, despicable druggish foolery.

For Christ's sake, I don't believe in me.

What would you do for a smoky chamber and hot metal kiss? I would lick the barrel clean; I would oil the trigger with tears; I would laugh while loading; I would whistle and bang away; I would scatter my skull in silence.

There is bliss in annihilation.

I don't believe in a drop of it, not a mouthful of the blood I am spreading too thin. Won't God give me some solace? When will his thunderous jaw clatter down from between those glass-eyed stars of his and give me a bit of a blessing? Or is this favor, and are my mutinous mutterings fuel for righteous wrath? To argue is not blasphemy, my God, my raging God. What world is this that you have made, that reveals itself and shakes your hand while fingering your pockets? Are the flaws that squeeze our veins in tight cages about our red throats your concern, or your amusement? Jesus, God, the more I discover, the less I know.

Can't say as people love anymore. They love not wind, love not crying, love not love. It is a paper passion, a morgue of gold and bribes that lay me down.

How much does it cost for a funeral?

How much will it pain your pocket to throw some dirt in my mouth and separate my rot from the beaks of crows? Which will be cut deeper, your soul, the earth, or your wallet?

Jesus, God, what black clay did you use? What bitter, brittle bone did you draw forth from the face of the deep? Was it the thirsty wishbone of broken Rahab? Is that the flesh of which we are formed?

Goddamn it, God. Some answers would be nice.