Confessional #11

My feud with my self.

Warring over untold chemical observations,
a mental hierarchy of slaves and masters, lovers;
a quarreling insight into the depths of love,
here do I dress. Here do I undress.

As the windows let in
Winter’s bite; so I let in
the freezing blast of
asymmetry.

And when the heat thaws me,
I open up the doors;
to let the light and shadow in.
Everywhere is marked by the
translucent piss of pagan gods.

Thrumming,
ecstatic sores of Mercury!

The sour moon of Saturn’s spin.

A diabolical edict;

A flash fire
in the midst
of Eden.
Only Hell.

Until the end of the world
meets us with its toxicity.

I am nothing.
I am nothing.

Confessional #10

Daisies and war,
Aminidab & cacophonic stretches burning out the light,
Drinks & candlelight masses;

A study filled to the
brim with every word
that proceeds out
of the mouth of God.

You are my echo,
and I, your plaything,
but we only last
as long as each
particle of faith
remains orbiting around
the sun of our experience.

And we will annihilate
this fleshy core of my
existence;

Echoes of the birth pang.

Dancing, winding, spinning sorcerer;
keeps mild transgressions at bay.
Dipping in the wax of a cumulative ghostly shell,
I crave to burn fiercely for a moment,
on this good earth; as a testament
of my devotion to Your prescribed commands.

Confessional #9

Pins & needles mark
the excess fatty tissue;

With no vow to bind me,
to her,
just a loose-
dappling
of sound and love.

No one is purer
than the Christ.

So my heart extinguished,
of love, romantic;
I wonder if it will ever
derail again
and set me wildly on fire.

Love, romantic.

Can I encapsulate
myself in some
prison until my time
is done, until–

The heart in its excess
bleeds the epiphanies of God.

Confessional #8

I have not
considered
all the words
of God; nor
have I constructed
my appeal.

Court rules heavy.

My appeal,
to be united
with my beloved;
and to conjoin.

We twins,

I am lost,
in the catacomb,
with the dead.

No light shines here,
only the dim beating
of my heart.

And I appeal,
with sentence
just, and swift,
that my thoughts
may turn into
projections on the walls;
and I may be released
from this little hell.

Confessional #7

And a calculated risk; Vatican exports
toppling desire

My meat,
the bones,

A cylindrical and contemporaneous mask.
A cyclic surgical
dystopian commodity.

My body
accumulates
a measure of
condensation.

And I strum,
without hearing a sound. And I strum.
And I strum.

Festering inside of me,
the sins that I have
committed since dawn’s
beautiful rise.

And although I can
replace one sin with
the empty void of
love,

Only He can
cleanse me with
His grace.

Confessional #6

My war is far from over.
In the trenches,
taking toxic fire.

Over the head of us,
the war planes swoop, and glide.

My chemical war.

Intoxicated by your breath,
kisses fused with laughter;
the dripping sweetness of your speech,
every moment
an intangible wasteland
devoid of vegetation,
as I settle in and make my hole a home.

Words like water,
from the sky.

And life begins,
in a drop of Your
remission.