Accusing Buddha

There are villains in the soup. For sure. Old stews that sat on the stove far too long. Flecks of gods in damaged men showing us glimpses of heaven. The real one. Not what the angels would have us believe.

Martyrs she squealed. All of them. Sweating the smell of panties like an unjust execution. Penises trying on every aspect of the woman. dissatisfied with the complexities of becoming men.

Flesh judging quickly. The accused. The desperate. The victims. All the same it speculated.

Justice is in the first taste. Everything after is punishment.

In the prick of the dominoes on their tongue. As each one knocks the next one down. Confessions of truth failing us. In the faults of skin that crumble like whole cities. Still the earthquake is a disappointment.

This whole disaster wasted on the dead.