Light Turns to Stone

                    A Story Told at Night
                                        in Beds Around the World

The mouth of man is god’s bidet
          in a land where light turns to stone
          the spots of lepers whose hands hold
          truths prayer removes as sunsets do

lips preying on shadows they prowl
          thick sphincters his winking assholes
          stroll as they sink through infernos
          fingering open their moist souls

to receive his bone, licking its
          chrome-plated barrel as sin turns
          warm what warning made up to scorn
          frozen and framed, thawed-out outlaws

perform with pornographic grace
          tongue-twists and cake dips for the baked
          brains of slashed-wristed babes teen moms
          throw away, playing with passion

lurid versions of salvation
          the never-born slur in verses
          ensuring their rebirth as they
          forego scriptural fiction, hips

aborting tradition as they
          sway to his taste and let lure them
          his gyrating pace, daisy heads
          lopped off by unchaste directions

the almighty phones in moaning
          dictating to minions how best
          to service him, their chains broken
          as if excommunication

divorced from desire’s equation
          its pseudonymous factors, those
          bad actors, those slanted letters
          hushing to crisp-dollar whisper

a division our heavenly
          bodies full of shit and free-will
          scissor, x and y like two legs
          parting reunite to join again

gaping jaws he split wide for us
          as we rediscover pleasure
          a kiss blind faith in a formless
          and faceless force tries to censor.