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Little Stories

by Desdemona Sinestra

Michael, I'd sleep
But I'd rather lie here
And watch your face
Because the way it looks
When it's facing me
Is like an angel cooked
In bacon grease

Heaven is as imperfect
As the ghosts who haunt it
God's just a terrified tenant
In this home we've possessed
We write our prayers with a choir of scorned corpses

Tidy up
Slumlord Jesus
Ashes and flashes
Cover the masses
Distract from the lord's duress
Bones crack and moan
Like the windy forests at home
Lead us not from temptation
And spare us not the money-shot

The countdown concludes
And there she is asleep
Careful not to make a peep
Ashes to ashes, my sweet
I'm glad we have these little stories

11/02/2014

Posted on 11/02/2014
Copyright © 2024 Desdemona Sinestra

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by A. Paige White on 11/02/14 at 06:28 AM

Amen and Amend.

Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 11/02/14 at 03:42 PM

I loved the creepy undertone to this, especially God being a "terrified tenant" , the bones moaning and cracking, Slumlord Jesus - well, the whole thing. Well done.

Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 11/04/14 at 03:25 PM

Good to see this front and center. Congrats!

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