I find room in my phone for sexting God

I find room in my phone for sexting God
even though He doesn't exist and the memory
is running out. I'm using these weird jokes on Him
that I learned from Twitter, a bunch of awful puns

and offensive tripe. These poets in these webs
of protocols and hypertexts, the juvenile
and decadent vulgarity of art is disgusting.
Or is it? The dumb sex of the conceptual

artists, the relational nonsense of a kid
that's drunk on Kosuth. I find room without
myself for consciousness and the body of

my Beloved writhes in an image file. O God!
turn off the Internet! The withered queries
of nodes are almost too much for me to take.