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Heaven means little when there are bloated
hands, a skirt undone, blotches of blood caked
across the face. There is nothing splendid
about heaven if any dull, half-baked
prude can get there simply on faith. The pus
oozing from the earth, the pus in my veins,
some say sin, are the same. The Horned Huntress
calls for me. She Who Cannot Be Named reigns
here, a living heaven, a flash, something
divine. Your last orgasm; speak molten
omens dripping down your thigh, soothsaying
your cum for things to come. See what you’ve done.
All for a faith that needs no toil, no vow.
All for a heaven that’s right here, right now.