Jesus lies dying in my bed   Companions since birth...   in this stagnant dingy haunt   he never really lived.   Last night I beat him as he would not leave   My insane eyes stare at him as his welted body bleeds   Frequently I rape him as I know nothing else   He curls up like a fetus and paints his face with sadness   Now a fragment of remorse has etched   I bandage his wounds, I kiss the face of Jesus Christ but he is dead   What can I do?   You have forsaked me, called yourself messiah, expected me to follow   But now he is dead and his prophecies with him   I will bury him not as insult to your face   as I stare at his corpse one detail disturbs me   His cold stark finger points where I have not been...   From my house, a cage of rotten wood   I stumble forth to lay beneath the bush   withered bones groan,   I cultivate as the soil and I grow closer   The sun receives an empty gaze   it mourns   it knows my life is gone   No more to offer but my flesh to this soil   and a single tear marks my final prayer   a rosebud sits in the palm of your hand as I end   this flower   it blossoms