Jesusland

The young stallion feasts

He feasts, how he feasts!

The blood of pious fifty-something men

Served to him on a plate.

Look at his dark face smiling,

As the libraries hold vigil

For holes in their holy books

Grown in the season of leeches

O holy fire,

If but your sacred flames could purify this, thus

Speak thy word

And I shall burn it all down.

Swear a fiery oath,

Stallion of contempt—

Swear on dried ink, you,

Mutilator of worlds.

Until the word

That is given

Is hung 

by the neck

Like a Christ 

on rotting wood

On gallows 

of wet cardboard

Ilford HP5. Basilica Sainte-Anne de Beaupre. Photo by me.