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you are not alone in your body; god is inside you.

you feel him at night, acutely, pressing at the bleeding holes in you brain: the holy spirit glues your blood cells together, and wetly they slide in a sex stew in your churning bowels.

(spit-slicked, you are born and are fantastic as you leap forth. over the edge and over again, he plays along, opening his legs and revealing pulsating tight vessels. anxiety bubbles up sickly under your tongue in worship:

love on hiatus,
and what good is a day? and
what good is a day what
good is a
day what is
good a good day
what good does
a day do what good is)

hands fill you up,
"please." tentacles rush from the skin, suction-cup, sweet nibbles at the cusp. you had a question-- there was a click and spluttering hiss, magic sparking in your loins and a chain reaction, a sporadic mechanic display:
fireworks, ideally. a footnote to a scream and it is an arrested creator, it is a moth-whisper of string theory and it is a domestic breakfast scene.

this is god's creature in tragic happenstance, in repose, in deep.
this is god's creature all alone and careworn,
carsick. a tender explosion and you are teleported into outerspace: a featureless nowhere and a moody, digital plain. you worry violently in this oversweet hell, head-over-heels in love with the thin margins of dust mote angels; angles overhead embrace.

(these things happen in threes: simon says attention deficit. a distraction so quiet and so close to home, murmuring in the early morning of the eclipse. a world burning catches your global warming and it is an automatic orbital effect, apocalyptic cross-fire and a mishap, a panic attack. fire escape down the edge of the world into the collapsible madhouse.)

body one: dead man. a eulogy for the committed. the household punishes the concrete with sure steps and a fast stomping, a salsa dance and a mad hat or two and it is over.
it is spending purgatory with bumblebees and you rebel respectfully, stomping up and down the stairwells romantically. you rub noses with monsters under the beds, eskimo kisses and feather touches in respect to the absolute infinity hanging in limp streamers. and hand fill you up, and you paint yourself in his image, and happy birthday; all the sheets and shower curtains strung up in memorial, intestines slung over the nightlight in celebration and you will overcome the world tonight.