"kissing her was like coming home"

"kissing her was like coming home"
written after time and time again by jake kilroy.

what do you give a man who has everything?
godhood.
what do you give a man who has nothing?
religion.

try saving grace when there's blood to be had,
smeared like warpaint on the statued idols
that look over the islands like hungry crows.
this was a good joke we had on ourselves,
somewhere beneath the skin, with rage pulsating,
with stars glowing, with mesmerizing lips,
with the hair on our neck standing up as straight as soldiers.

and i was supposed to be made a joker in church,
holding coffins that looked like works of art
while telling widows that there's a better place than their hearts.

i write and write and all that comes out is spittle.
this should be lion roars with breaths of fresh air.
this should be cries for help in a city of saviors.
this should be the long monologue in a taxi cab,
but finally with something to say amid terrifying blood-loss.

"kissing her was like coming home,
and i've wandered like a carpetbagger,
but all i want in this world that never stops
is to sleep in on a sunday morning with her next to me,"
comes the rattling chain of a backseat death march.

now that wasn't so hard, was it?