Maybe I need to get off a site sprouting Whores of Babylon and other idols that I don't care about and go to a site for writers

Or maybe my writing just sucks and I should just go away in general

I don't know, what the fuck ever man

I like atheism.

I have a lot of reasons for this,

Such as not feeling particularly soulfilled

Even when trying singing soulful

On swinging steps, hands that clap and

Fists that clench and shake enthuse;

Or the electrochemical insight,

That sweet citric and battery acids,

Behind the hands and swings and shouts

The knowledge of the circles and nets

And ununcouplable couplings that built

Our moving feet out of the dirt ground.

One such reason is my imagined economist

A sliver of myself and a devil's advocate

That runs a cold counter-current creek

Through all of my comfortable spring fields.

I'm listening to music about the big reward

Or about sex that feels like the big reward

And he says to me, we can't even imagine it.

What would our heaven be? What could ever

Be so happy, so serene, that we could not corrupt it,

That we might not see in it some quick silver glimmer,

A threat, or some dark running, waiting in the shade

To pull us to shreds of skin and panic and regret?

"What could ever satisfy you, you monster?" He asks,

"What could ever please me to peace and silence?"

I try to conjure it for him several times.

"A lover," I answer shyly, "A lover to lie with

In the white late morning sun

With absolutely nowhere need to run

With translucent angelcloth curtains

That drift easy in the breeze."

He asks me then, "And who is this?

Is it that one long lost, his first night home?

How could you ever know it's his home?

Would it be the real one?

Would any of them be?

And surely it could never be T

Because he has one love somewhere else.

And you have one splintered glass

Filled with hot blood spilled

On several different unfortunate souls."

I blink at him in the stripes of sun.

"Maybe in heaven, assuming there's a heaven,

I could have all of them. Maybe in heaven

I am my own supreme tailor

And I can have one true love in his best place today

And another in most suiting on another fine day."

He sighs and smiles condescendingly, and

Shakes his metaphysical head.

"And what is the glory then? It sounds to me

Like your heaven, then, is a fancy place for cheats

And steals and greeds and thieves.

How much would it hurt to pull

The slivers of that broken cup

Away from each other even further, a repulsion

From their spiky self-sames, your affections divided,

Between so many folk that you say you love.

How much would it hurt to twist so slowly

Those long-living blades one more turn?

And besides. That still leaves them impostors

Possibly."

"Does it matter?" I ask him angrily, "Does it matter?"

He grins a slow and crooked razor.

"Does it?"

So this afternoon I learned

I at least can't believe in Heaven

It's not like I wouldn't go to Hell anyway

And it's not like I've never been.

I was walking home on All Hallow's Eve

When that honest Toly says to me

"Sometimes I wish I smoked cigarettes, you know?

It's like slow suicide for us cowards and ghosts

And the smell keeps you warm when the fire burns low

And you don't live guessing your COD.

Not usually.

And how can you be alone if you smoke?

Like friends that only show up when you're broke

I'm broken, fix me.

I'm broken, don't touch me.

So sometimes I wish I had the ashes to show

Boots made for sidewalk-smashing the glow

Of an emb'ring paper end old enough to go

An experiment with a chemical meant to set me free

Just to see.

And how can your hands shake if you smoke?

Artist elegantly like your nerves weren't a joke

Like your emotions were real like the spokes on the wheel

Help me, I can feel."