As a good bellower with hair unkempt, I shout messily to the sky

Are all you Gods squeamish?

Do you go blind when things turn eye for eye?

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I am surviving on sativa and Seneca

And a rapid-eye lobotomy

Nothing can pry these memories from the retina

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I am only good for gaslighting, laced with affectionate

backstories that manufacture empathy

Making me crave a ceremonial womb-like exodus

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Just to say that my rebirth was a cesarean

And I almost didn’t make it

But now I’m saved, a presbyterian

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Or a great pyrenees, visiting the pyramids of Giza

Not overly concerned with it’s wonder

As a self-absorbed, four legged diva