Dearly beloved
we are gathered here to fuck and die.
All us sisters and brothers
Our sins pure and man and woman made.
The page is plain.
Your rulers, you, have deceived you, your rulers.
It’s not who you are.
It’s not what you did.
It’s who you know.
In the Biblical sense.
What a friend we had in Jesus
nailed to some tree in Galilee
and bearing fruits of seedless fruits,
straits swum by straights seeking to birth before they drown,
dykes of bloody dykes with fingers stuck in each other,
to hold back
raging floods of damns,
the hole damn nation, a void dead,
floating, besotted, on some strange bedrock of hell
and high water.
But his story hasn’t ended.
The power of their need requires a place to hang our
heads.
Perhaps life and death are equal, but we’re on the winning side.
And we like it.
Nothing says it like flowers. Flowers are dead. Killed in the flush
of their bloom. Alive only to be given in death. In given, their purpose all
the more of life.
As our cells fuck, as give to each other to make more life. As we touch our
shells together, and know briefly, far beneath words, that there is someone else
outside. As we trade our breaths, beating on our necks, trading our tongues, exploring
the plumbing.
And a cross stands revealed, as but another canvas. Stroke and brush. And then it hangs about
our sweet pulsing necks, albatross or treasure.
Making both the sweeter, your gods, your terror, life and pleasure.
A way to hold it in.