Title art by L.H. Grey

 

 

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Gregorian Chant “Dies Irae”

 

 

 

 

Our father
who art in heaven

 

callous be Thy games

 

Thy kingdom’s fucked

 

Thy will be undone

 

on earth as it is in heaven

 

I need not Thine forgiveness for my trespasses
or delivery from evil

 

and the path of temptation I walk of My own free will

 

for I am not so easily led

 

I am the black sheep in the herd of Christ

and all of My red cells are
dead cells

 

You hold no power over me old-timer
no glory

 

and I hath no need for divine intervention

 

In fact I abhor Your condescension

Your bigoted views

Your feeling of self-importance

Your blind arrogance

 

sitting there on Your

twisted throne of lies

 

barking fallacious instruction to the moronic

 

Your treachery knows

no ends

Your actions

no shame

 

and yet You expect Us to worship Your shrine

 

to bend over backwards in order to appease

You

 

and for what

 

a hollow promise

if You can even call it that

 

I much prefer the term threat

know passive aggression when I see it

 

“His grave was assigned with wicked men, Yet He was with a rich man in His death, Because He had done no violence, Nor was there any deceit in His mouth”

 

and You’d know all about deceit
wouldn’t You

 

the fear of God they call it

 

For good and upright is the Lord
therefore He instructs sinners in the way

 

casts Them aside like vermin

 

saving only the righteous

 

and what becomes of the godless man and the sinner
He knows all too well

 

there are thirty nine steps down to Hell

 

I’ve been counting
right now I am perched on the bottom step

 

hesitating only to see You squirm

 

My iniquities have made a separation between You and I

 

just as You forecast they would

 

but I know what will needle You most

 

For I am pure of heart

 

and while My blasphemy enrages You

 

I’m also something of an embarrassment to You

 

You had such high hopes for me

 

and I wished only to please You

 

but Your negligence sickened Me over time

 

as I kneeled at the foot of My bed
and recited Your self-serving prayer

 

I hated You

 

You never answered
were always predisposed

 

and the deceit in Your mouth was expeditiously exposed

 

for years this has gone on
until now unopposed

 

I have burned at the stake many times
felt the cold caress of the guillotine blade
on my nape

 

been

hung
drawn
and
quartered

 

left to rot in a dank oubliette
parched

beyond belief

 

sobbing
throbbing with hatred

 

which You placed there

in something so flawless

 

Crystalline

Yet my IV line You contaminate

 

with falsehood after falsehood

 

so when You spread out Your hands in prayer
I hide My eyes from you

 

Yes even though you multiply prayers
I will not listen

 

as it is Your hands which are covered with blood

Your dagger that bleeds me

 

but unbeknownst to You

there is another hand that feeds me

 

sometimes I bite It
and this only excites It

 

Its long spindly fingers
feast on My flesh

clutching
claiming

 

each inch that I give most willingly

debating not

My fate

as

He already has My blessing

 

My faith in He is never wasted

 

I can taste him on My sex

His strong tongue flicks and probes

 

as I gift Him communion

 

it is He who kneels

 

He who begs

His sorrows are not borrowed

they are My corset

 

laced tight around My vitriol

teasing it out

 

making Me pure again

 

however

this is no white wedding

 

and I think We both know that by now

 

there is nothing holy about this matrimony

 

the Grey-Chapel Path led Me here
while You were too busy elsewhere

 

and now I am to be wed
to the

Devil incarnate

 

and We haven’t asked you here for Your blessing

 

We know that God does not hear sinners
but if anyone is God-fearing and does His will
He hears him

 

meanwhile
the posterity of the wicked are

cut off

 

and now it is You
who We

sever

as We walk hand in hand
through the never

 

forever and ever

Amen

 

 

 

 

Richard Charles Stevens

 

Keeper of The Crimson Quill

 

 

 

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