the pope is dead

The pope is dead.dot.damn.dot.dead.dot.dead
holy.dot.dead.
well fed pigs at a trough, sleeping jerks dream cream colored screams.
dot.dead. … dot . dead.
not dead not dead not dead
no offense no defense, no slips to trip
undressing in pleasing essence
of lives in doubt, in grace periods
between payments for pavements
of ripped up screaming dreams.
pounding hard on fishing fantasies
fishing dreams, fission beams
light beams from unholy reams
commandments of atonement reaching back to sack stoic men
we’re living in the pig pen with over zealous breeding
through uncapped seeding – this lawn is dying
with the pope being dead, damn, holy, not, dead.