Little Gods in Torn Jeans

You're not old, but there is much younger. Deep in that mushroom cloud some call sex you launder your dead. Buttoning the creases with furtive fingers. As passive as a nightmare. As subtle as anal sex. Pale sheets to fold in dartboards marked favor. In joints labelled friends.

Calm is the patriarch some will worship as salvation. Slighted as a god can be. Its power darted by the disciples of its dominion. Feverish gods hurrying for our approval. When all thees drugs have failed us.

And all that's left of awe is how they've how much.

Tomorrow lost to demons we'll never reach.