I cover myself with Jewish symbols,
paint my scrotum green,
drag the blade across my torso
as slowly as a turtle crossing a highway.
I am mixing ink
from phlegm, feces, blood.
This is what I will use
to write my manifesto.
The ones who went before me,
who tumbled into pits, are waiting.
They stand in a meadow,
staring at the red sky.
Behind them is a great city;
a place, perhaps, called heaven.
It is burning, and everyone knows
God is the one who struck the match.
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