Deviant Mediocrity

I was doing laundry. Attempting to quantify the ratio of suds to clean. Or dirty. Absolved to the sovereignty of the stains. Content to be ruined.

I was waiting for the world to stop. That diabetic coma that occurs between sex and words. The poetry of soiled skin missing its meter.

Thinking about the mediocrity the ritual had become. Soluble Satan's and corn syrups gods baking their afterlives in cookie dough and caramel crunch. The rotten sweet of heaven too much. The saccharine sepsis of hell my only alternative.

It's not ours. Nor does it belong to the dead. It's the realm of disenfranchised saviors. The almost sons of gods sweating their crosses in bits of candy too hard to bite. So we just suck on it.

Until that familiar candy shell is hollow again.