It's easy to be a saint
On paper
Or a monster.
Kneel down
Before the true skull of St. John the divine.
Saints don't have histories,
Past lives,
Regressions,
Confessions,
Monster, gargoyle, baby possessions.
Saints don't shit
And shit
And shit
Rivers of shit.
They don't piss in a cup
And leave
For others to clean up
After.
The foreskin of Jesus
Buddha's navel
Kiss and make up
Take up
The Cross
Their cocks get hard when they want
Did they have cocks?
Take up the cross.
My stigmata's between my legs.
Kneel down there.
Heal there.
Feel there.
Their scars are scandalous sanctified,
Ours are self conscious.
Saint's don't have clocks to punch,
An apology to make,
Obliterate,
And confiscate,
The meaningless of design.
The spirit is willing
But the flesh is weak,
Until
You speak in my mouth.
Open me From both ends.
Shotgun my blood wandering,
Throat chakra.
Fuck Kafka and Nietzsche
And the other mentals
Practicing autoeroticism
But never getting it right.
Sew your hem shut
Like Cornaro Piscopia.
Be damned for microscoping details
And making monsters
Of mothballs.
Mind fuck
Wants flesh
Struck fresh and even
Now
We make saints on paper.