Walk down the rose red aisle closeted thoughts collecting in
the distant distorts cascading from the top of my shadow in the black of its
shade fed head to where the darkness ends and I begin at its hinges on my heels
the royal red carpet rolls on beneath our pounding souls the chorus howling
hymns about the glory of the holes in His hands at the back tarpaulin that this
morning was draped across the Almighty rattles at the base of his cross as a
lost wind riles up the doors and the people in the pews go up and down
listening to the good news about how the Lord with in the crown of thorns with
the colours of dawn leaking down his face from his Temple saved the poor and
the whore to a lip service score that makes me feel like I have leprosy
crawling sliding on my skin flaking scales peeling back behind the pale of my
clean white shirt how long will this charade continue? How long have my
thoughts and my wants laid straining in my sinews contorted distorted by the
Man with his finger on an Bible toting Taliban who plays gentle when the flocks
around but will be all guns blazing if I confess the truths continuing to malaise
my psyche but it’s not my fault that I’m like me is it? It’s not my fault I don’t
believe it’s not my fault I’m not what they want me to be I don’t want them to brandish
their blessed grieves and cleavers and arms shotguns cameras flash bulbs like
suns spitting sparks at ‘the freak of nature’ hammer wielding nuns getting
ready to punch nails through my palms and leave me hanging by my hands over
some wasteland farm out in the sticks near the M6.
For being me. For
wanting a she instead of a he, for thinking free.
Doesn’t god except
everyone regardless of taste? Isn’t that the message that was laced through our
thoughts during all of those course Catholic lectures about His love between
articles about crusaders casting arrows from above like lightning brittle
snapping as they enter the gapping between heathen armour.
“jesus was like a farmer. He made his people grow strong”
And then his descendants started making rules about who did
and didn’t belong and warping the rules on right and wrong to fill their
pockets to stick their dirty keys into the lockets of youthful concubines bound
by silence bound by place fear tracing the bags under their eyes ravaged and
savaged if they spoke out against the monks they died as liars in the crackling
fires of the Devine and Sublime word of god that became sodomised before my
eyes down the years as I found history the mystery of how things were and how
things will be that had before failed to find me found me and freed me from my
guilt. I started to see that Popes not as giants, but as little old men on rotting
stilts begging to break so that the falsely appointed can tumble down to the
ground to drown in their greed crimson seeds bore spurting fruit gushing flutes
of feral red empty creeds ringing around the silent dead.
“and what name have you chosen my child?”
Lucifer
“Michael Father”
"an unusual choice for a girl my dear"who's this fucker think he is to sneer at me and my choice?
I want to voice my views but my choice cannot be. My mother's to the right eyes brimming glee hands clasped in prayer it doesn't matter that i don't see what she sees the point is she does and I wouldn't be any better than this fucker making an over-analysed letter T over my head if I hated her for what she said she thought.
I say nothing and this expulsion stings my skin skins my tongue rots through every rung of my being. Oh how freeing it would be to set forth from Heaven like Lucifer keying Christ’s Holy Beemer free thinking slogans trailing on streamers on his exit.
How many more times must I stalk this aisle an
invalid braking my back to please the lazy lay people lying in their seats
cheats freaks geeks this house full of the meek too scared to speak too scared
to reach beyond what they’ve been told too scared to be bold and stand for what
they believe, for what they conceive as right or wrong after all who’s to say
who’s right or wrong about anything? Sexless beings with wings like Barbie
Dolls and Action Men? Kings of Kings hands coated in bloodied rings and stolen
things? I think not, we’ve cast our lot in on a losing horse choosing the
course of least restraint because tainting your mind with unique trains of
thought always hurts. But it’s worth it in the end, the wounds of independence
never mend and never heal the pain of thinking is very real, but it makes you
feel.
It’s good to feel something.
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