THE PRODIGAL GODZILLA

(part 2)

The president’s forehead grows thin as paper. Inside, a fire is burning, whole libraries are turned to ash.
The White House becomes a party hat, passed around drunkenly by the side of the pool.
No one can decide a thing.

Switchblades flick open; horrible abortions are performed
In the shadow of the golden arches; Everyone is on
A blood-mad search for the True Son, the Son of the King.
If they can kill him, they might feel a little better.
Everyone’s in a mood that’s a lot like drowning.

Now their fingers strum a symphony on my belly.
They clamor for the placented sunlight to stream from me.
They are hungry; there can be no waiting.
They’ve always played a game with fear.
Now they want the real thing.

My breath, the angel wings of butane.
This is my body, I give you this gift.
I will give fire back its’ original name.