God is fucking God
somewhere, right now,
in a basement apartment
on a battered fold-out couch
with sweat-stained sheets and an old Amish quilt.
Her lascivious moans
and the rhythmic creaking of the springs
permeate the paper thin walls of the universe
like the primal bang that brought forth creation
from her yoni.
Don’t like this image?
You don’t have to share it.
That’s the beauty of the human imagination:
your God can do whatever she wants.
Just thought you should know
before you start to wonder
why this strange afterglow
everywhere you look.