Reflections on Blessing

I am currently in the midst of writing some experimental prose-poetry in the vein of WCW's Kora in Hell. It's based mostly on my Pastor's preaching on the beatitudes. I've also drawn some influence from Flannery O'Connor (an African-American writer of fiction and essays from the post- civil rights movement south Georgia). She often writes on spiritual matters with a distinct wit and surprising / disturbing edge. I plan on writing one "section" for each beatitude, on Sunday afternoons after church. I've given myself some "rules" to follow to make it more challenging:

1. Cannot use "I"
2. All narration from the first person omniscient perspective
3. People (other than God) will not be named, but may be given a title
   
4. Each section must attempt to present the spiritual truth taught in the corressponding beatitude but not neccessarily in an obvious way.
5. Each section must be written in prose style (with some poetic presentation allowed). Poetic devices (such as rhyme) may be used.
   

I've currently got section I and II finished. Tell me what you think:

How to Live with a Curse

I.

How to live with a Curse. The first cut off the chopping block. A gold ring in a pig's snout. That woman. A gold ring. A pig's snout. The Bull's horn slams into her ribcage. Choke, choke, gurgle. Like a gold ring.

The Bull tramples your flowers and drinks your clean water. Tell the Bastard to get him outta here. Tell the Bastard how to live with a Curse. Crack a smile when the Bull comes running. He who loves discipline is wise. He who mocks correction is stupid. Keep mocking. The Alpha and Omega.

Your gold ring is a curse. Your Alpha and Omega. You look like a pig under your skin. Your false Christ. Tell the Bastard he ain't got love. Your Christ is Bull. A Curse.

You're a queen in a pig's snout. The horn in your heart is an adequate decoration. The blood that drips out of your mouth matches your dress. You're a queen.

Where's your golden crown?
The ring lay bloody on the ground.

II.

A little black with envy and a little green with strife. You thought you'd be a good man and you thought she'd be your wife. You were always so metaphysical, glazed with years of permanent dismissal.

Come down.
So walk down and fall down, always standing and laughing. On the inside. But you sit down and eat. On the outside. So come down. He is the maker of all things but for you is somehow only worth this fraudlulent apology. So come down, walk down, fall down. He who mourns will be comforted.