My God

My god lives in a house of salt and it has sixty-four dogs to protect it from prayer. You can offer up pork scratchings or strangers' hair but it won't do you any good. My god made the world out of sticky-back plastic and things it had found on the floor. Now it just cherry-picks the things it likes the look of and keeps them higgledy-piggledy in its massive bumbag. That is what happens to everything you lose. As far as angels go, my god has me, although I am not an angel and I don't belong to him. I just do this freelance because it looks good on my C.V.