Oh God, I have nothing to say. Please lift these doldrums off my tongue. Oh Lord, let what shackles my throat release itself and scarper. The Lamb and Lion of God, your lips have described us and we are imperfect. We shift and shape around exactness, constantly relocating ourselves closer to possessions, to sex, to the light at the end of the tunnel. By your hand we favour swimsuits over professionalism, silicon over papier-mâché and twilight over redemption. We rest at the foot of your hill of beans, clawing dirt into our mouths. We see the summit and your Holy Shoal, and the light you emit humbles the most chemically enhanced.
On receipt of our souls, we will be placed over your right shoulder and upside-down, on our heads. Payment in full and a visage scorned by banished angels, ours is not the thieves, both sinned and only one redeemed, but the apple bitten by Eve or an eternal sin in sperm. By his side he reveals the truth as if to embryos and removes all doubt of continuities and laugh tracks. The deity I know has a winning smile and leaves rooms smelling sweeter than before he entered. The God in my pocket isn’t disgusted by my naked body and talks to me later when sober. My saviour recognises reality in degeneration and doesn’t want to hang with your idol.