Your faith
is a dead weight
upon the living,
a dot at the end
of a vacant line,
your faith
smells of rot
under headstones.

You claimed
that I was your god,
and as you do for whores,
made up my name,
and as you do for dogs,
called me any name
until I was ill-famed.

Your love is pure
the way cruelty is pure,
sharp as an abstraction.
Your love always
calls for a cessation.

I don’t know
what to do
with this misconception.
I don’t need
the agonies
of your religions.

I have no more end
than beginnings
I have no name
but that of your flesh.
Your own flesh
you should love
beyond hope.
I am that I am.

In my fire,
there’s no longing
for ash.
I am.
I can do no harm.