Magazine from Catholic Guilt by Rory Strong

I’ve got myself a hat.
I promised I wouldn’t steal.
I’m gonna meet a dealer,
gonna make a great big deal
out of the things in the mountain
and the things that aren’t real.

God, cry me a river.
God, cry me a moat.
I’m fixing up some dinner.
I’m fixing up a boat
out of the mud of the muskrat
and dinosaur bones.

Just to accrue more debt,
smoke better cigarettes.
I’m gonna meet a teacher,
and I’m gonna take a test.
The man that love,
or the man that I left,
snuck out on a Wednesday
with that ash on my head,
looking like I had been cut out of a magazine.

If I were to eat,
the fruit that’s in my hand,
if it stains my teeth
or if it tastes like sand,
if the sea never wanted to swallow the land.

If I left the cavern,
if I left the dirt,
if I left my family,
if I left the church,
if the moon never wanted to break from the earth.

Just to accrue more debt,
smoke better cigarettes.
I’m gonna meet a teacher,
gonna have better sex.
The man that love
became the man that I left,
snuck out on a Thursday
with his blood on my chest,
looking like I had been cut out of a magazine.

Well, I’d rather by the mystery,
or some forgotten ministry,
the sound of someone else’s song.

Even if I don’t remember it,
or if I end my membership,
forget to leave the porch light on.

If the earth gets too tired to circle the sun,
if my heart gets too wired to pump all my blood,
if I make like a basin and drink up a flood:

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