Last time I went to church: a dream…
It is summer. At rest I saturate, but it is all soul at some ember that has its bath at hell.
It is Sabbath. Bells chime. Some stroll to church to imbibe Christ, choose to eat Christ, so their sin is lost in sacrament
like an addict on a narcotic who can’t seem to find a clean shirt for future employment following a brief work history survey,
like this lush that hustles her soul behind a stripper pole to collect reimbursement for her implants, for the darling, drunk stares, for her drinks do need some change for her therapist behind the bar, for her friend the bouncer,
like the man who found a woman for the way she tickles his balls with a feather tickler, with a cat tails cracking against the tip of his cock finds himself a way home–how, happily, his wife penetrates his shit hole, and licks his mistress’s clit while he scribbles as a secretary in an office before coming home for dinner, for a threesome,
and like other sinners anonymous, in bliss these servants that bask in the break from life to meet their master, that succumb to meet the host at that last hour. Am I at church or Egyptian execration?
One virgin chooses for a Priest to cut her arm, Christ-like, chose to lose her charm to see this time, chooses to be in the chains of black thread, chooses to rise out our orb, lost in bliss at the master’s star-filled sea, in orgasmic transcendence she screams, “Oh shit, Christ!” The church hustles to see. She saturates, well. She saturates the congregation. I tell them to clot the stab, but useless as a spectral spectator to the spectacle of sacrifice–they bathe in the cabernet, vampiric they vie for the wine of her veins. Are they so soulless to see they succumb as her, to lose their souls to Christ later?
As Cerberus the master waits behind the kennel of the cosmos to eat each skill that sought labor in the sandbox of a blue marble, spinning by the shining sun, for the perpetuation of a faithful steeple.
3 November 2012