Email Poem

Your IP Address: 3.148.236.97

Your Email Address:

To Email Address:

Subject

Personal Note:

Poem Title:

Poem

Three lying deacons 
swim in a handbag -
and a lone, celibate pastor 
paces longingly bemused.
Michael, the Arc Angel, 
poses silently,
in dusty Gabbana drag,
cursing the lipstick-painted laymen
writhing in rancid attar -
naked 
and intentionally 
unused.

Four wide-eyed boys 
dance on a daydream –
kissing ripped posters 
of a white collared rapist.
Saint Peter understands 
the jovial jokesters -
the foolishness 
when blackened specks darken the void;
the flurried flutter of his eyelids
casts a tainted shadow 
upon a fractured sexual ballet.
They continue to kiss
below the waist.

Three lying deacons
and a pacing pastor resides –
five lip-smacking nurses
massaging your head.
Four wide-eyed boys 
caress your knuckles
as the well-trimmed priest 
pronounces
a poorly 
scented infant:
"anally dead."

Seven cardinal sins
slip and divide 
into 3 venial ratios.
"Hi, Sonny"...
Greed, lust and vanity 
are mortal crimes; 
Father Fragrantly Fresh...
quietly proclaims:
"snuggle a bit closer and 
sniff a hint of Genesis."

Say I’m to blame
and cause-count the afflictions –
smaller undetected lumps 
hump the jaded addictions
brain dead and haughty –
the zombies 
circle and laugh!
I wasn't born in a  dark discarded 
Parisian tunnel but -
can you Roman Polanski me,
please?

Kill the poet...
and make him pay -
below the waist.
Crushed words embody
a forgotten loner’s 
epitaph!

(force him to stutter stupidly)

and within a last breath -

and within a last breath -

and within a last breath -

GOD...

"the string-strangled 
puppet 
conventionally chokes - 
and quietly succumbs
(to a textured landscape) 
of a youthful 
silenced dying...

...swaddled 
and swallowed
in a heavenly -
haloed chosen 
death..."

CAPTCHA Preview

Type the characters you see in the picture

Required