Is That God

Are veiled adra holy? Seventy-two in a packing Where can eyes find that place where god shows his leg, and no sex or sin is lacking. Rivers of milk, for better it is than the breastfed men, fed by a prophet's wife My God, is there a beach filled with white beds where I will lay to continue this upchucked life? A novice uttered a seer's cry where Iblis is too close tell me, prophet, who will occupy our heads, what will the nights be without that neighbor in our nose, will the rivers host jinns and tonic, and I, like he, wastes sons on my filthy robes? Promise me again I'll never be drunk where I stood on bridge over hell's blaze, watching the panic, knowing the aroma of roasted "transgressors" Do you, man of god, deem this sacred thought as good; the blazing leaps of yellow camels in whose wombs are thorns that rip tissues, and god's heart is unbreakable, not like Saleh's rock that broke to give birth? But then, again, why should I nurse these issues, who fear a god refused by the mountains or the earth? imaginations, who handle his everlasting stone, given eyes to capture Blattodea and sins, gazes that saw enough farthest from home; an unfit task to bow as subjects to their kings