Vanity is the exile of the weirdo, breathing is for the damned,
screaming from the bottom of our souls is a desperate voice
we can’t hear, it says “help,” or it says “torture,” or it says the names of virtuous gods
we’ll never know, so crack a can, take a hit, and tomorrow will come
sooner than you thought it would. This is a lesson
from the great god of nothing, as it rules everything having no eyes,
no hands, no voice, no identity
other than that it is not not, all else bursting
from within will bring a cataclysm. So pray to this genderless mass
by going home, or stay out, and kill yourself, or build a church
with an orgy chamber in the basement, where the priests wear nothing
save gloves of two different colors, red and gold or blue and green
because the god of nothing knows it doesn’t matter, or maybe it does.