Purging the Liturgy


Fulfilling the wisdom
of the serpent without its venom,
“Damn him who condemns me
in my mission to void my essence
all over you, a word
hiding in the house, sending out lewd
rumours, unashamed at
wearing the beast of my Self, this I
choose to do, to relent
only to fervent moods passing from
the familiar room, soothed
by life’s turbulent truths moving through
passion to transgression


pressing into minds wide depressions
bending thoughts but ending
up leaving no wounds, passing my blind
censor by wild leaps of
breath fogging the lenses of faith with
dense sighs no one else has
ever said like this mysterious
as I am blasphemous,”
is what he said, adversarial
as flies on the walls of
temples built to be filled with secrets
never meant to be said
again or resurrected by eyes


of men oblivious
to the wishes of them whose desire
since the beginning was
to never have mentioned what lesser
creatures witnessed and flew
away with, to purge this liturgy
of such scandalous filth
of phrases such as those this pen writes
over now with, saying
only too much that having survived
temptation is not
enough to have truly lived, since what
this teacher of nature’s


vulgar meanings offered were answers
to prayers the beggar of
your heart’s garden never asked for yet,
spade tongue running from his
mouth like dirty water, digging it
the way a dagger does
every fibre of your wonder’s
gutter he muddies by
forcing its falsest modesty to
blossom and flower far
beyond love’s impossible power
to what for endless hours
feels like but never reaches heaven.