Origami

I'm a one-man origami orgy.

Only a fresh kill makes a meat puppet.
With so many eager arms up my ass,
hands in jaw like birthing a screaming siamese,
my pleas of neurosis are blood bubble gurgles.

No, I'm not dead. Not Yet.
I'm a Venutian sex trap.
How many Sodomites can fit before I snap?

God fucks those who fuck themselves.

With so much sucking and so much spewing,
who's inside who?
I am your Jihad. Your Protestant son.
A faggot before I was born,
I am Mother Mary fucking Magdalene.

The severed head television set,
nonstop marathon Divine Comedy.
I think I blew a fuse.
Pink noise in a pocket of pink pus.
That old cathode glow just won't show.

You were always the worm
in my vampire's heart.
Now who's feeding on who?
That stake in your hand isn't so smart.

Yes, even God must die.
That stinking fetish in the sackcloth sky,
that fruit-tasting phallus-toting serpent brain.
The dead are screaming in their graves,
and this is how the world ends:
Not in your sated whimper,
but my Big Bang.