They Didn’t Speak of God

Their god was a wooden fork with burnt images on it.
One of their monkeys subdued me and led me around like a prize.
It was good to feel like an animal, or a photograph
Of an animal, taking photographs.

My god was a machine that linked images of shit to stars.

One of my monkeys put a leash on them and led them to plastic.
It was some kind of charade involving breast curves.
But any ordinary mathematics would reduce it to advertising.
Or the ebb and flow of forces originating in a France that isn’t.
Show us your god now.

Make all those pages into girls and birds.