the gods were already high
blasted on cosmic pills and dust scraped from dying stars,
pissing on comets, arguing about the color of pain.
they watched us
half-curious, half-jealous
as we ground our hips together in a motel room that smelled like cigarettes and someone else’s regrets.
she bit my shoulder like she meant it,
called me “Jesus” mid-thrust,
which was generous, i’m more of a lowercase savior,
just a broken man with a working tongue and a grudge against heaven.
outside, the world spun.
inside, we spun faster.
apollo lit up a joint with sunlight and laughed.
shiva played drums with eight hands and no rhythm.
loki filmed us on an iPhone, muttering about royalties.
every god who ever mattered, stoned out of relevance,
watched us bleed worship into each other’s mouths
like it was the first fucking prayer they’d ever heard.
there’s no religion holier than skin.
no scripture better than sweat.
and no god worth worshiping
who doesn’t get a little jealous
when humans learn how to love without permission.
Read this on Substack where it first appeared — if you’re into that sort of thing.
