"Jesus is dying in my bed companion since birth in this estranging dirty lair, he never really lived, last night I beat Him as He would not let, my crazy old eye to Him as his scourged bloodstained body, I often rape him like nothing else. He curly like a fetus and paints his face with sadness now a fragment of remorse has incised, bandages his wounds, I kiss the face of Jesus Christ, but He is dead what can I do? He abandoned me, called mass, waits for me to follow him but now He is dead and with Him his prophecies, I bury Him not as an insult to your face as his corpse particularly despairs me, his cold rigid finger points where I have not been... from my house, a cage of rotten wood stumble away to place under the bush the bones moan, till the soil and grow closer the sun receives a blank stare, that cries knows my life is gone I have nothing more to offer but my flesh for this soil, and a single tear marks my final prayer, rosebud sits in the palm of your hand like a flower,