Holy Punchers
I think hell is like a midnight grocery store.
Shelves filled with burning crucifixes and pestilence.
Bloody-black water up to the necks of Half-souls.
Groping mindlessly in the dark...
Searching for God in brackish hopelessness.
Flint and wooden carts colliding-
Black water biters abound.
The checkout line is a turnstile.
Manned by faceless, dripping things.
Wielding holy punchers.
Eternally pocking your debit card soul.
While howling Who's Next!
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