One Night in the Old Church

Story by Horndog D on SoFurry

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#1 of Erotic Poetry

I've dabbled in poetry for a number of years, but always lacked the courage to publish any of it. When I learned this month was the 20th anniversary of National Poetry Month, I took it as a sign that it was finally time for me to share something with folks outside the small circle of friends who (occasionally) get to see this kind of work from me. As always, critiques are welcome.


At these three dozen steps from the womb,

I stand beside the edge of understanding

the significance of these

tattered, rough-edged recollections

colored pale as sun-bleached Polaroid snapshots

displaying the neighborhood church

as it sat in its final stretch

of rambunctious Sunday exhibitions.

Snow white gowns and sea blue suits look

black as midnight against the dawn

as they file beneath the Babelian stone steeple

towering high as a skyscraper

exiled miles outside the urban sprawl.

And sky-high echoing cries of

"Halleluiah!"

Elated throb of ejaculation;

sins shamelessly exposed as

wanton calls explode thin hallways,

brick walls bulging, swollen with noise:

praise songs, choirs, bells and the

groan of the organ moaning deep in its throats.

I remember, still, the light

that rose above rows of empty homes

and the industrial mausoleum.

A massive museum of stalled cables hung

impotent and cold, quiet as the old church

filled with plates collecting dust and

jagged books of earth.

Dandelions, fleabane, crabgrass, purslane...

We find ourselves at home among the uninvited.

Where doors once said FORECLOSURE,

locks cling like spiders to weathered oak that splits

with one swift

kick!

to reveal roads laid before scorched forests

where pews lie scattered like shipwrecks and

lusting tendrils strangle thin spires

beneath the laden gaze of dark saints stained

by nightfall and fish nets of mold.

Air tastes of rust-eaten daggers,

heavy as granite slabs stacked high as lightning,

real as bare-breasted bodies smoldering

hotter than a sudden matchstick ignition.

Clouds of culican smoke curl up from

a stick of incense lit between my lips,

blurring the view of souls squirming like

writhing serpents of temptation,

tongues and tails tightly entwined,

backs arched in wide gateways

resembling wide eyes alive with desire

beholding sights obscene.

What teachers called in nervous whispers

S - E - X.

Unruly ritual,

arcane and mystical,

more ancient than holy scrolls and

sharper than the whole of guilt.

Ravenous as beasts with teeth gaping,

pouring forth a torrent of braided choruses.

Sing!

Praise the mighty phallus,

raising as the day's sun blazing marvelous and grand.

Hard as a steel hammer strike

spraying white-hot sparks of life.

Sing!

Praise the sacred yoni,

pearl O of the moon swirling in her perfect oval orbit.

Blooming center of paradise;

jewel-crowned portal to eternity.

Amidst the eclectic ecstasy

of mingling, frantic vessels --

sculpted muscle, bone and flesh

pooling, caressed by perspiration --

the electric anthem of nerves buzzing akin to

angry beehives bulging about sweet nectar

centers. Moist lips, blood thick, we

align like planets shining bright as

fires rising above apocalypse,

charring discarded shards of thought

to expose the hopeless beauty of youth

doused in shapeless dreams

soaked deep beyond skin deep,

surging to frantic, racing currents,

erupting in waves that bend against island

shorelines engorged to galaxian proportions.

Insatiate fever and laws of nature refuse to

break as we wake to brand new life --

furious, primal, godlike.

Worship ends as the murder-cry

of highway tire shrieks and

sirens screaming loud as demons

arrive to defile our sanctuary.

Chasing the space between secret exits over

toppled tables stitched together like rivers'

banks copiously overflowing,

we burst through the entrance to night,

lightless under trees left free to reach

for the stars.

We are flesh, fur, hair, hide, scales and skin,

wildly stampeding,

bounding over boundless rows of stones

etched with lives lived quietly in piousness,

the ruin of markers silently reminding us

we are alive.