When you blew me, you scattered my mind dust,
Then you knew me, you splattered my kind lust.
And I want you to know, that what you did
Was that you began to sow
My ashes over the earth.
Because I died seven deaths, each one a show;
My lashes flickered my worth.
And now, now I can see my inner self which was hid.
If the Christ was so famous then I owe you another touch;
My belief is that you haven’t had enough.
His book was not published in the sky, nor for I;
But, I, even I, can see romance in wanting to die for a lie.
The sands of age, that vintaged vindication, fill my head.
Seven thousand past lives and not wanting for anymore dread,
I know my dust is heavier than the whisper it took
From you to erase my tablet, so I still have some, look, look!
I don’t believe in the ordained molesting and dictating my pain
Nor in the obtained representing and thick-hating my shame.
I can’t support a word made into flesh when all of the ones
I have read tasted more like sweaty minions than hallowed sons.
I won’t endorse such a course as that of chastity, because, simply
My libido is my credo and my excitement is when the host becomes wine within me.
Before the sun turns my dust into glass, and I pass
From hand to hand in a market, I want a mass
Where the celebrants question everything,
And the choir sings songs Madonna would sing;
Where those present are a gift
And I, I can not be miffed.
LORD, have mercy, when you bask
In your capitalized task;
LORD, undress when “too loud!”
Is what is said of your purple by the crowd.