evil vs.morality

The tongues of hell

Impure, dull fat Chthonic who wheezes
at hell’s gate. Incapable
of licking a soul clean- that indelible smell.

Hatred, the low smoke of Patroclus
haunting a body- like Cerberus
choking the aged and the meek.

The hothouse greases their bodies like
bomb ash, radiation turns
white- their skin grows heavy as a

Lecher’s kiss. Dark as a lantern flickering
on, off, on off.
God’s head is a moon searching for bodies.

He plays down the pardon for the bearded
apple garden; good and evil
grow on trees. White and black beasts

Paler than the cross. They were once living,
now dead crying in hell.
Satin’s sullen face like a mudcracked church;

He fiddles a hymnal with his long black hair.
The steeple bells are like empty
wells for lost souls- they cleave in the clapper;

The priests crouch, humped in silence. Jesus
surrenders to their obituaries.
He is a lean undertaker in their empty pulpits.

The bond is canceled, and the prayers are no
longer heard; they seem long
and weak in the bodiless hell pit of earth.

Dayadhvam and the aethereal rumors, a revival
for a moment; the devil is no
hand expert. He speaks with a controlling tongue.

The tongues of hell

Lady Madonna

I walked alone in a multitude of loves-
the preacher’s, the wise men’s,
the Jesus’ father-
my miraculous virginity leapt up to the
heavens, upending lightning,
down to Galilee’s deep sea pillow,
where once I was married alone; my
lips catching an avalanche of
sacramental salt, ringed with tidal pools-
for a chosen woman sleeps
where the shore courses through her soul.

This was all approved in the proverbs
(a moral mousetrapped parody),
the nun blacked chased women; sheathed
the virgin shape to baffle all
pursuers, save one, a man called
Joseph- goat thighed and god haloed;
twined his hard hands around
my thigh like ivy, bit my Puritan lip
like a sacrificial lamb, pale, pith and bloody;
our fame soared past the
ecclesiastical brethren, soon wore the

Leafy crowns to a manger. Dark days to
follow after a birth, a shrouded
Turin; splayed too long in the boughs
of heresy. Cast a stone, iron,
merds. Stiff as twigs in an eye. His
body is askew in this doomsday neglect.
Untongued, cross-twisted, his
righteous anatomy till the steeple breaks.
His consecrated limbs and lip
to Christian’s chastity service; his
house is a decayed house.

Lady Madonna