Nov. 7th, 2016

  • 1:27 PM
pridefall: (an atheist in hell | John Constantine)

If This Be Blasphemy

The first time we fucked, I saw God.
—and no, that is not a metaphor to explain how:
that night, I learned both Braille and Scripture
at the tabernacle of every bruise and bitemark
my lips drew like penance from between your thighs;
That night, I was not Baptized at the mouth of your river,
nor born again, resurrected virginal and absolved of sin
like every faux-penitent atheist before a plane crash;
Madrigal, my God’s-honest truth is this: with just one word,
you moved me. Brought faith to the faithless, you soothed me
like every great parable should; you renewed me:
slowly, at first; your gentle hands took consideration of:
each quiet space others had left ragged within me;
I came to you a shattered wreck, drowning; but you,
you reached inside and nailed fistfuls of wood and iron
around my heart like you still believed in saviors;
you are no saint, but in your soft ministrations,
I found myself: that self still yet a shipwreck, yes;
still lost, my hopes and dreams stretched thin like sails,
battered and worn from a lifetime spent seeking my
True North—not for myself, but in others; love,
before you? I was just wood better left for kindling,
simply a boy hammered into the shape of a man,
but after? Though I am yet still a warship, sinking;
your name sieves from my lips like floodwater, and I
I am a man drowning that still believes in anchors.

this is not a prayer, and I: no pious Franciscan,
no irreligious Pagan seeking benediction for:
how your nails etched the words "Holy Christ,"
into the length of my spine; it did not take me
years of study cloistered in your embrace to come
to and understanding of the language of your teeth
—only practice. And patience; for in our holy parapet:
I found God waiting both prodigal and ancient,
Her only Rule of Law to go forth and conquer
every inch of you between: the door, my desk,
the wall, the floor, the wall, my bed, the shower;
my teeth as plowshares; my tongue a blade;
my hands Conquistadors, each mad to claim
your temple as my holy ground. In your sighs,
I knew Her Sole Commandment dealt more with:
drawing my name from your lips, eyes shut and
heels digging, fingers clasped tight between mine;
our bodies a Testament written to reconcile two truths:
this—what felt a mutual Inquisition, but instead became
our unironic retelling of every Spanish occupation;
you: Cortez by way of Quixote, lionized by word of mouth;
and i: every brown skinned boy looking wide-eyed for God,
only to find Virtù and redemption in all the wrong places;
love, we do not ask one another for forgiveness
in this: our war against all common sense,
because the language we speak by candlelight
has no word for “impropriety,” only:
"Yes," "More," “Right there,” and "Oh God, please—fuck me."

you are the Walls of Jericho, fortified,
and I: Jerusalem by way of Scheherazade;
my words exist only to prolong the inevitable,
for I know that every church crumbles, and
not even Lucifer could adulate perfection
without the want of something more; us
we want love with a knife in its hand,
we want love on a mountaintop, all truth,
its edge poised to smite our non-believers;
but I see you, and think hymnals; think Maria.
Think Eve. Think Savior. Think of shoulders, and
holding the weight of someone else like a cross
never meant to be borne in anguish; we fucked, love
and every Sunday thereafter, I have known Heaven as:
waking up to the smell of coffee, and her:
barefoot and hair still a mess, her outline dripping water
as though it knows there is nowhere else it would rather be.


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