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It’s true that Gabriel soothed me out the womb with lies. I thanked him with my six-shooter. He had been talking people into cleaner sex. I was cheered and held the crown, Squiggling Jesus, 1955.

The year we danced The Revelations Macarena, The Age of Singing Lances, The Meat-Flower Decalogue, guards broke through the town like a chapped smile. No one wanted to fight them. No one wanted to run. Some of us were never meant to climb twelve stations.

It was the night I crucified myself with sperm, glistening tail through each wrist. The sperm aged into little sons, all bubble-drenched and puckering for the tit. They sat up mad and forced me to clap, shoving their sins back into me one at a time. They brought murder so neat I gave thanks.

Bowing commenced at the trauma center, followed by vomiting. I held no memory of sockets. We watched a fleet of guards wearing the drag of stain-glass colors prop an entire nursery on their laps. We stared until the paint rubbed off on our faces. Our cruciferous darlings shaved like turnips and carried rightly. Then every baby in town demanded a sex change. An annoying shortage of rouge ensued. Electrolysis diapers littered the street. I hadn’t ascended to keep anything clean.

Some trumpets and noisemakers on Resurrection Sunday. When I paid the guards to kill me and my town they overcharged, but I played dead and there was enough ass in the genocide ditch to get my hump on for days. Better nurseries unfolded into the dirt. Hidden in a field of bushes, like green hands pinching toward God, were all the unused ovaries crisping in the sun, painted ladyboy shades of yuck.



squiggling jesus


sean kilpatrick