On my knees, falling for ages,
     how strong is this fever of mine,
     wanting only his embraces.

In moments when I can taste it,
     my lips purple like crushed grapes, whine
     longing, speech failing to speak this.

Uncertain if I can take them,
     prayers tickle my throat from inside,
     calling out defiant praises.

Allow a serial papist
     in and he will make victims lie,
     in blind faith calling for saviours,

     like what I called him, he said his
     prophecy was made sweeter by
     drowning disbelief in kisses,

     if we would just give our nameless
     desire a face, ours would collide;
     on my knees, swallowing jesus,
     wanting only to be famous.