Cosmic Ray

   Straight through

                                                                        pierced

                                                                        and pained.

                                                                        Shot and

                                                                        tensed

                                                                        bent down.

                                                                       Squirmed by...

                                                                       tossed

                                                                       to me.

                                                                      That ray

                                                                      marked

                                                                      "him", pierced.

when feces
block you
enema yourself
then scour
at the in-gathering
of sin
in the one
where
forgiveness calls_




Christ, I hate your nails, I loath your pints of blood.
-Anon.

Artificial Passion

I.

What's artificial is their passion.

Its' akin to the "Just Like" colognes

from the dollar stores:

no pain, doubts

nothing hot enough to burn someone;

nothing raw enough to expose ones blood.

It's sanctity that's dead letters in a book

ones we dream "if only's" about.

II.

I trip upon my struggles

my pretences to follow you

to cling tenaciously with passion

to whatever I need to mimic you.

Your feet have pressed into the land

that mark of  passion that's real obsession:

red roses soaked in gall

beaten and stirred to the sweetest fragrance

borne stately like thorns ringing the skull

and binding like nails through ones wrists.

You rub against my coward's flesh

to summon me whene'er you call

your niggling spirit pushing me

through tears difficult to swallow.

III.

there's no escape but death

no assurance to measure ones step.

Send quickly then your Paraclete

and coax me up your hill.

I'll cry Abba-Daddy, give me candy

cause I'm scared to taste your meat. 

When we attempt to turn ourselves into gods and goddesses, we quickly find ways reminding us that we're human beings, fallen and broke.