w.w.j.d. (when would jesus do?)

below the broken glass
that sipped his scotch until he was pretty
enough to fuck-
a bible caught the tears 
that trickled down an empty wishing well,
and stumbled through a prayer;

as the ice cubes dull the liquor
he licks his lips
before diving off the rocks
into a pool of vomit.

the gold glitters in the blood splatter
that stains the pages
with the prick of every finger-

face down on a stripped mattress,
with a headboard decorated 
in the talons of frantic prey
-the nightstand dressed in pages
that burn in the dialed pupils of self destruction,
just as easily as they do 
in the arms of blindfolded children
flying too close to hell-
Icarus with wax wings meld from the body of Christ
and feathers trimmed from the psalm of life;

only to find fire and brimstone
beats paper thin hymns.

and as the pillow swallows him whole,
the crucifix above his bed
weeps-
nailed to the splinter ridden 
quarter panels of this motel 6,
his tears only fill his glass 
until the water from his eyes turn to wine

that makes it easier to die.

the funeral was held 
in the middle of the dessert,
where the cactus plants handed everyone in attendance
a stigmata for good faith
.. and a single cloud sat in attendance. 

one heavy headed cloud
hid the head of a bashful voyeur
-dirty eyes and soiled pupils
filled with masturbation
that trickled through the pews;

another fetish
below the thorns he wore with lust
and nails that pinned 
a rosy cheek on the seams of rolled up cuffs

-the bible still catches dew
from the glasses
of collapsing ice cubes in the climax
of his pews;
press your hands together
in your leather suit,
your fallen tether tightens 
with a watchful eye below the noose.