Confession of an Altar Boy

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Chris Isaak “Baby Did A Bad Bad Thing”

Forgive me father
For I have come here to sin…

Pleasures of the flesh
Dress my confession on this day
Wouldn’t wish to give blessèd impression away
Nothing less than pressing my suggestion to digress from scripture blistered with the lesions of dissent and fresh decay
No more apt a pupil in this fruitful congregation
No more overdue to vent
No less humoured to repent
Nothing to forgive
For I live as I learn
With burn of desire
Amidst kindled yearning for incineration
And the towering inferno of my once textbook member
Rises as She dances barefoot through the embers
Ashes to ashes
Each bat of her lashes enraptures
Satin sheets cling to the skin She is in
Each contour endorses the imminent capture
Fracturing silence
She writhes for the scythe
Slithering python with come hither eyes
The ultimate prize lies betwixt her sweet thighs
Where the nectar of Zion resides
Her taste on my lips
As I tongue kiss her slit
Not a solitary drizzle shall escape
Indeed, I hunger for her unrestraining gush upon my face
Locked tight within violent embrace
And should She wish to have more wicked way
Then I shall be her plaything
Patiently awaiting
Whether whips or blades unfazes me
Danger makes me playful see
Which principally speaks princely of my faith
Wouldn’t wish to give blessed impression away
All this talk of bloodletting is getting me unchained
Straining at the leash to be the freak of her domain
Craving for her season as She bleeds to see me slain
Should this mean my sacrifice
Then kneel me at the altar blind
Peel my rind from sinful bones
Leave the mortals mortified
For every scar She cauterizes
Calls to mind desire
For where her flames rise
I invite the fire
From deep mined clay to steep of spire
And higher still
And infinitely higher
Tantalizing tantric screams in silent sweep release at ease
To see her every need appeased
To saturate the satin sheets
Cling to the skin She is in
And wring out every single bead of blood and sweat She ever kept within
Should that make me a sinner
Well then, every loser wins
I would sing for my last supper
To be sainted by my lover
Reacquainted to another place and time where rediscovery was brave and leaps of faith were taken blind
Your scripture lies old man
Hence the grate you hide your face behind
Declining gifts you strive to take
In name of one inclined to rape the beggars of a testimony signed with hate then have the gall to call itself divine
Fuck your god
I walked his line
It led to same place every time
I live as I learn
And the burn of desire
Sends me some place infinitely higher
Yea, I do walk through the valley of shadows
Howbeit, barefoot
For my fire is rebaptized within these shallows
Pleasures of the flesh
I can feel your eyes narrow
It’s a sin
‘Tis this wicked little game
Not a single thing hallowed in thine name
Far too late to repair me
I’m off to nail Mary
And then we’re gonna really misbehave

Richard Charles Stevens

Keeper of The Crimson Quill

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