# One Night in the Old Church

Author: Horndog D
Tags: Adult Content, Church, Drugs, Female, Male, Naughty, Orgy, Poem, Poetry, Sex, Various Species, Verse

#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.

Source: https://sofurry.com/s/dmWRKpBe
Part of the series Erotic Poetry
Next: https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/1051714-sub-dom.md