After the completion of eating 50 hard-boiled eggs, our hero Luke finds himself alone laying on a table covered in eggshells, legs crossed, arms Teed up in a Christ-like fashion. While misplaced crucifixes are quite common, I was taken aback when presented with an opportunity to consume one myself. (I, too, once found myself comatose, frozen as a dead Savior, though I was surrounded by a Trinity of vomit, sprawled off a curb in Nice, France. I can assure you that I did not look like Paul Newman.) The sucker tasted almost as good as the one who purchased candy at a Christian store.
This candy has a wax nose and a thin body. The tannins are repugnant, though the lingering acidity is quite nice. While hard to swallow, there are no atheists in candy stores.
Something from the back catalogue:
[TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN]
When your rosary became mine,
Its tarnished gold-color had faded
As it sat in a fragile, purple pillbox dated
I hope this rosary meant something to you.
I hope you ran it through your hands confessing
Your wrongdoings to receive a priest’s blessing—
I hope your fingers felt the warmth of Truth.
The Lord’s arms spread in a Nixon-esque fashion,
Disprportional, awkward and elongated,
His abdomen and crotch well overstated
Suggesting Christ: a model of passion.
I need to know the feeling
When sins are absolved, the soul feels
But these cheap plastic beads aren’t divine
And would melt if I prayed for healing.
We seek Truth through beauty
Hoping to fuck passion along the way
But when that fails we turn to You and pray
That You tempt us with some fruit.