Sure, I want to be the new god;

I’ve earned it. I’ve stood by while dogs licked the paint off tulips,

and words’ parachutes refused to open, the dictionaries.

This is soul as cutlery, or allegation. Noting this,

I crawl north through the confetti belt.

My revelations will be seen dead on sky. The cost

is immensely immaterial. Substitutes track me across the

night screens and what I don’t know about humanity

will be reduced to a volatile powder, a toxic compost . Then and only then

will the gospel be proclaimed and instantly

forgotten.

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