God Poems, NaPoWriMo, Poetry

Rape Is Not Exactly the Word (NaPoWriMo Day 2)

These beautiful men
These beautiful women

I was their bright angel
in a time of bright angels

in the time when I and my kind
were toppled to the desert god
the one and only
the perfect to our many
flawed and
unchaste.

Rapture is the word
closer to the word.

There
that makes me feel better

confessing now as a dear and
moral friend to the mortal race.

I came and came and
pigsty sex to me was
to them the quickening
touch of the holy hands and
body all sanctified
of an agent of their lord.

It is no excuse but
they were better for it.

In a way
I loved them all.

-M.

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God Poems, Nature Poem, Poetry

God Nature

Young Son Virile Boy
Humps his way through the underbrush
Eats out every night
Comes home for dinner
Head grows into the crown

Granddad Limp Limb
Back in the cave
Waits for ointment and
His good bitch to come back

Dad gone
to town for pussy and heartburn
Where’d all the good ones get to?
Loin cloth at the dry cleaner’s
Drags dick and briefcase along the jagged path home

-M.

Dreams, God Poems, Poetry

Communion Delirium

He stained my skin with the fruit of his godhood
crushed young strawberries down against my soft places
left listless trails of bruise and pulp

He placed one and another between my teeth
and commanded I bite like I
was an uncivilized thing

close enough to the leaves and stem
to taste the bitter break
between god and creation.

-M.

God Poems, Poetry

The Plutonic Graces

My one beautyAgostino_Carracci_01
my one pure thing,
I can’t heal you.
I can’t.

The fever’s in your girlish mind.

My hands fail me—
are clawed up by morning.
There is nothing I can hold
through the night.

I have been there before.

Let me focus on my wine,
plying lust.

Play along with me.
Let me hurt you a little more.

Crawl down here with me,
willing.
I’ve given up the face of God.
Yours will do.
Let me scour the trusting flesh
from your cheeks
with stony grave dirt
and self-prophecy.

Rub your nose in it—
cologne
and your blossoming body
of sorrows
still heady in my clothes.

Your scent is changed now.
Woman,
let me thrust into your hands

wet loam and loathing
rotting limp leaves and spoil.

Make glory of them for me
I beg you—
it is all I have left as a man.

You have been a guiding light
and I will never
let you
leave me.

-M.