The clergy’s taken in

Well-dressed preacher sprayed himself
like he was walking Windex.
He became the fucking room!
I never knew he was a tin of paint too.
Quite red! Forgive my tone
but I am laughing. Well, forgiveness
came out his cock like the rod
tinier than his eye that blew up.
He damned mine and the devil grabbed him.
Picked up his every bleeding piece,
lovingly, put it in a box
to scorch it, made it flinch.
What other monster could be so honest.
I mean, it’s a small thing.
The devil’s creaking penis.
A little cherished musket, like.
A small thing, same as his words.
Man behind the pulpit screamed
how unabashed muddy children do,
naked as the very word means naked,
and then a good stare comes along
and tells of the world not being anyone’s.
That fear. The sameness of even going there
where evidently pain and tedium rule.
They are the sky and ground, preacher, killer.
I bet creatures beg him welcome.
When someone collapses
they are only as short as need be.
These are words of respect
whether or not you believe.
He said believe a lot. The devil
probably keeps him in the bedroom
chained by a stare. He moans
too quietly for me to hear,
though I don’t mistake the wind.
Quiet like the howl of dogs
you can’t hear but know it’s there.
Hell is all irony.
I think he’s saying help me
in between the million cackles I throw back.
What was it about good intentions?

~ by Jeremy on June 5, 2011.

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