Pit and pulpit

Alternate title: The arteries

The null in this room
squeezes shut, like the knot
of men choking Hell’s mouth out.
Has the world yet grown chaste,
tired of putrescent tastes—
the flock of abusers repentant
even as lambs do obliterate—
tired of fucking pieces of children
who only lost their tails
between the sheets of Bible pages?
Has it tired of the graves
that how ants knot we knot in
like cakes in a length of intestine?

What book gaunt as the sea-foam
to injured wineries women hold may
unwind a rubber on its tickled face?
There see, there your windows
look back in the darkness
at every creature man fondled,
when the noise of silence read
more and more like scriptures
in an sea-star’s stomachache
or the piston of a pervert’s handshake.

Hmm…compare daisy chain to Jesus feeding the poor off bread and fish, a pulpit one grips proselytising to bareback, the Roman Charity to blowing, crucifixion to penetration, the cross to a penis as ‘cloven hands nailed how an hale city burned’ and ‘the frenum’s chasm and the fountain of alcohol thereabove,’ and the one-ness of the universe with a very large anonymous orgy. Why not!

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~ by Jeremy on March 20, 2011.

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