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  Pure As the Driven Slush (Personal Journal)

penance this isn't ~ 2009

The sweetest cherry on my face
aches for your entry.
Blessed and how among women,
and blessed your fruit I consume,

Holy Mary, Mother of God,
I want you for dinner,
your pleasure sweet-sour on my breath.

This is your body,
this is your blood,
and this is no small thing, no shallow gesture
to kneel, panting and pious before you,
my mouth as faithfully yielding to your eucharist
as yours is to mine.

This is
our covenant, that pulsing pistil
my shrine.

You know better than any
that patience is a virtue:
so you let me take my time, don’t seek
to cut short my consecration
or scrimp on my wine.

I speak in tongues.
Every lap, a lithurgy,
every swallow sacrament.

If my knees get worn,
all the better. Later when I whisper
my prayers alone, I dip into a chalice chastity abhors.
The tender skin rubbed red
and raw as I rock revisits my communion
in an invisible electric jolt;
an annunciation on all fours.

This is my vesper: as I’ve begun
you are hallowed, set aflame.
As you succumb,
I come undone:
your birth in my mouth, such heaven.
In dizzy disarray, your hands on my head
as we reinvent masses,
and under my nose, we surpass those which do not deserve us.
Lead me right into temptation:
I relish your upheaval.
For mine is the kingdom, the power and the glory.
Now and whenever.


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