Good Friday

a vague sense of death on the hill today who wants to stare at human decay in the sunshine dirty people dirty criminals crucifying themselves they bring it on themselves i can't bear their hospital groans their families rending garments as if they were old curtains and the youngest son of vengeance limbs raised blocks my view of the circling summer sky and i cannot see him as my messiah because of my regularly postponed inevitability and my damned cheerful nature.