Not even empty pews want to make room
for boys like me;
but, oh, how mother’s heart would ache
to listen about the Almighty Son without her own.
Be it truth or lie,
we choose to believe what’s most palatable.
Sweet, innocent, ignorant woman that she is,
mother chews on the belief
that the light of God will change me.
So I play my role dutifully;
never do I turn my head from the pulpit.
It’s all about appearances, anyway.
But really, I’m enraptured
by the near-naked Messiah staring down at us all.

He dangles before me like a carrot.
Oh, that sweet, sinewy body of Christ—
those abs
that long, flowing hair
that battered expression, that restraint.
Something about a man in submission
really gets me off. Jesus,
I wouldn’t need a *******;
put the real thing in my mouth.
And oh my lord, those hands-
what ***** **** could we get into?
He was a carpenter; I’ve got wood.
This fisher of men—
he’d have no need for the other 12.
We could make that boat rock without them.
Come all ye faithful?
Indeed, I would.
Does he scream his own name
or Daddy’s?

Call me sacrilegious;
call me obscene;
call me what you want.
Are my sins any worse than your own?
At least I’m here, Bible in my lap.
Every Sunday, we all paint our halos gold,
put a few dollars in the basket—
that’s all anyone cares about these days,
forgetting Jesus dined with society’s dregs.
Aren’t we all just here for the body of Christ?
Some of us just have to hide
the erections it gives us.