The Smith

and hence
my coffee does not exist!
only joseph smith exists
and I am his bitch!

Stagnant little ponds
in the forest. a loony
sits on his grave and
pretends to converse with the
almighty.

He swindles and strikes a deal
with his other personality.
he opens a book and writes some
words.
some bullshit.
opalescent pictograph
money-making-pyramid-scheme
mission-fancy, forget-me-not
terrific mercy for
his majesty's schizophrenia.

I am trapped like a vagrant and
beyond doubt I am just an opinionated brat-
but I see that this man is a heathen and
am glad he does not exist to hurt
my feelings anymore...
no longer can he make lies
for he is dead and in hell.
he is dead and in hell...
whose hell?

tick-tack-toe...
fuck this...