The Church Basement (prose poem)

Since my veins were open during the seance exposing an undue amount of blood and the foetuses falling form my forehead were aborted, it seemed a good idea.  Getting to Church.  I arrived a few hours late for services 12:00 am, 12:00 pm, I had nowhere else to be.  I parked in the back and noticed steam roll like butter from my chipped green engine.  A cornea began contracting and refracting like a soft bowflex made from silver.  Seeing red, I noticed a man hanging from a piece of wood: it appeared he was bleeding to death?   I made a design in the window's frosty pane and broke in.  I tried wrenching him from this four sided wooden wheel.  No dice.  "Should I call an ambulance?", I asked feverishly.   "I've been everywhere", he said, "and I firmly believe I'm safest here.  Have you seen our candles?"  A cop with a face like an angry hamburger barked at me.  "Someone's dying in there!" I protested.  Instead of handcuffs, he bound me together in the freezing cold with rosaries and worry beads.