CHURCH OF SWOONCAKE

Random assholes cannot join my church.
My church is The eBuLLieNT Church of SwooncaKe.
Your entry fee will be a few drops of blood, a vial of tears
shed when you were the uncoolest motherfucker in town
and enough sweat to start your own disco.
You better be wearing shiny purple underwear.
Mindless mediocrity es no bueno.
You love to hit the slopes.
You love to drink Budweiser.
You root for The Dallas Cowboys.
You're thinking of buying a big deal car.
I'm sorry. That's great for you.
But not so great for my congregation.
Idiocy will be demonized.
Any asshole can add and subtract a few numbers.
Any motherfucker can have a hot shit credit score.
Any piece of shit can inherit property.
You can belly up to that Applebee's bar.
Bravo. I applaud you. But don't knock on my door.
This architecture is meant for deep and wide.
That fountain that has been flowing since
long before you were born.
You better show up soaking wet.
A specific hell is reserved for the bone dry.
Those among us who chew the cud.
So bovine. "I got mine."
My kind of divinity eludes you
because you are dumb with NUMB.
You haven't even
FELT yet.
Maybe you have.
But you were joking.
Maybe you have.
Through layers of alcohol
and the usual channels.
Your head is a 1977 television
static with color bar test.
I'm not the one to change you.
I certainly won't try to save you.
I'm busy with my own noise.
Trigger warning: COLLECTION PLATES.
In my church we collect teeth.
Dead white men
have no
currency
here.