#catholicism
How did we spend our early Easter morning? We escorted my Grandmère to mass, of course! And much to my surprise, Catholicism is back baby! The place was packed - and not with the usual elderly and ‘death adjacent,’ but with young Gen-somethings.
“What’s going on, Monsignor Philippe?” I asked the Auxiliary Bishop of Paris, after the show.
“Gen Z’s choosing to shake off p0rm and drugs and revitalise with beauty and discipline.
“And,” he added with a smile, “it’s one of the last places a young man can meet a pretty girl.”
“That’ll bring ‘em in,” I agreed.
On the club scene, some dance clubs have adopted color-coded security consent-bracelets - you pick them up at the door. It’s a stoplight-style setup:
A Green bracelet signals you’re open to being asked or flirted with.
A Yellow bracelet says, ‘approach with caution - feeling things out’
And Red indicates that you’re not open to being approached.
“De-stimulation officers” (bouncers) enforce all of this by removing the clueless and pushy.
You have to respect the balance.
Love finds a way
Every day we get to start over
and love is the richest choice we can make
Love is like a lottery win
in our unequal struggle with destiny.
.
.
A song for this:
So Easy (To Fall In Love) by Olivia Dean
Arthur's Theme by Nadeah
Apr 6
Apr 6, 2026 at 11:19 AM UTC
Anger curls.
It twists long fingernails into your hair and sticks everywhere;
It pulses, a second heartbeat.
It’s fast and swirls in waves.
It bites and kicks and scratches-
it needs to.
It rips and shreds and she's not there to be caught-
But it's for her-
It's hers, it needs to hurt her like I do.
She needs to see, too feel
To let it grasp her heart in clenched fists,
to stop that ridiculous grin.
It needs to give her what they have given me-
what she thinks I deserve;
And she needs to hate it.
Mar 2
Mar 2, 2026 at 5:47 PM UTC
They come sent in holy dress,
With rancid milk upon their breath.
They grind the bones of nameless dead
To bake as bread the crowd is fed.
Their fingers thin as altar knives,
Skin steeped black with borrowed lives.
They stink of brine, of clot and vein,
their vestments stiff with dried-up pain.
Their eyes are filmed with inward rot,
No light survives where faith was bought.
They mouth out grace through swollen meat,
each vow half-chewed, each prayer deceit.
These saints grow fat on kneeling doubt,
They rot the root, then preach the sprout.
Their mouths recite salvation’s word,
Their hands enact the silent sword.
Sin slides off them, slick and warm,
like waste poured down a churchyard form.
They call us foul, they name us stained,
their sickness dressed as heaven’s rain.
O saints declared by crowd and creed,
you feed on faith the way worms feed.
You preach of growth from poisoned grain
and ****** souls to make it plain.
Jan 14
Jan 14, 2026 at 4:38 PM UTC
lithium
AVa 12:15
wanting is disgusting
i promise you i wanted to be anything for you
i wanted to be your prophet
i wanted to swallow your ammunition
i want
to feel
the heat of
your lithium breath
static—
chasing after you in the parking garage
my temperature rose and
it felt like
the closest
i will ever
be to heaven
i promise you im beyond this
but
i swear i feel so ******* electric
i am the corrupted woman
because
i fall short of what the church asks of me
i am the bruise in your purity
because
i wanted you to take off my
—1 timothy 2:8–10 branded underwire bra
and let the pressure of your body on top of mine
crack my ribcage
like a blown fuse
i wanted you to pull the trigger
i’ve already drowned in holy water
and it burned my circuits,
the smell it made was putrid
and my body became hazardous
pull it
until every last wire in my heart
frayed and
you have to trace the fault to an open in the main line
the disgusting woman i am,
480 volts replacing the blood
that should circulate from head to toe
make me sin
i spend my sunday mornings in the lab
and
some
days
i want to crawl out from under the door
and put down the cold steel instruments
used as an attempt to rewire myself
my warning label reads timothy 6:20
lowercase t because i never thought of him
worthy enough to be considered a name,
a proper noun for what never was
the writing speaks timothy 6:20
“timothy, guard what has been entrusted to your care.
turn away from godless chatter
and the opposing ideas of what is falsely called knowledge”
my warning label condemns timothy the true son of faith
because i am the daughter of science
but my father is gods child
and i crafted a new generation
that defies slavery to the teachings of the generations before me
i had a hard time getting along with paul
the real creature of lust
who can’t keep his hands to himself and
if you read my user manual my new testament
is written on the front pages
with the first letter of my Name, Capitalized, recognized as a Noun
i wanted to be eve before the forbidden hunger—
the appetite that breaks saints
when i spent my last sundays
with the congregation
i wore the same bra under my blouse
with the timothy label
that read, “women should dress themselves modestly and decently in suitable clothing
. . . with good works, as is proper for women who profess reverence for g-od.”
bodies colonized by catholicism
the new status quo
that is woman exclusive
i tried to memorize the catholic prayers but
i zoned out retracing the article i read the night before
where pope francis accuses Chilean church ****** abuse Victims of slander
the article read
“francis reopened the wounds of the scandal in 2015
when he named barros, a protege of karadima, as bishop of the southern diocese of Osorno.
karadima’s victims say barros knew of the abuse, having seen it, but did nothing.
barros has denied the allegations.”
the pope speaks “The day they bring me proof against bishop barros,
I’ll speak,” francis said.
“There is not one shred of proof against him. It’s all calumny. Is that clear?”
i tried to burn their incense
because i thought it couldnt hurt as much
but i couldn’t take the pressure
of the smoke filling up my lungs
there was a time where us non believing
young lovers
stopped inside a church in the mall
to attend a shorter service
and i think i cried the whole time
before the end of what once was
i think that when our hands
met for the first time
you taught me God
the first person to love
unconditionally without
asking for more
i learned that resurrection
was not in the palms of a higher being
but that of the engineer,
who was truly adam
the perfect image not of god,
but one of devotion to his creation,
and the story of adam and eve not defined as tragic
but a blessing of chaos and order
the service was interrupted
with my daydreams of other versions of us
building civilizations and citadels
from the ruins found by
astrophysicists on mars
where you are allowed to be adam and eve
and eat without shame
i thought that shame
of being human could be shed
in the hands of a beautiful girl
with a utility knife
surrendering it to adam’s grasp
though he was never built for it
he is my religion
Jan 10
Jan 10, 2026 at 1:09 PM UTC
i don’t ever want to be forgiven of my sins
but maybe your not ready for that conversation
Dec 17, 2025
Dec 17, 2025 at 8:41 PM UTC
Going off the handle?
Better to say, gone?
Broke the neck off the bottle,
When you were just trying to
Get the cork off?
Perhaps you twisted too hard,
Slow down & be gentle.
Love isn't a race,
It's a marathon.
A rhyme heard from when he was younger,
For there was a love perverted for the Greeks & Romans.
There was more, but I won't go on.
Apr 10, 2025
Apr 10, 2025 at 9:26 PM UTC
On perfect nights,
my room is bathed in incandescent hues.
It reminds me of white-vaulted ceilings
and
soft worship music
The air tastes stale,
Your incense clouds my brain,
While white noise fades away.
The hills and valleys of your body are my altar
and I fall to my knees to pray
I can't tell the difference between
your mumbled sweet nothings,
and
Hail Marys
tumbling from a sinner's lips.
Nov 25, 2024
Nov 25, 2024 at 3:29 PM UTC
Press my ear to your chest,
listen to my favorite song.
In this space we can be,
While knowing this tender act is unholy.
I'll kneel at the altar tomorrow.
Scrub the remnant of your touch from my skin once I leave.
You're a blight on my soul that I can't purge.
God.
My God.
Why hath you forsaken me?
Nov 25, 2024
Nov 25, 2024 at 3:21 PM UTC
On a church, Mother Mary gazes up high
with her saving babe on her stone arm.
On her alabaster face: a cryptic smile
that has its own fine chiseled charm.
While I stand in the old town’s cobblestone street,
my mind sees me in a far distant place.
The visions I see speak of defeat,
a void that devours all grace.
I see myself floating in a brittle wood boat
with sails torn to shreds by the storms.
Frantically I toil to stay afloat,
tossed by black waves which ebb and reform.
Her disk halo of gold shines out in the dark,
glinting to those who sail by.
I ask her: tell me what can give me a spark
to let me soar up into the sky.
She offers no answer in so many words
and just smiles on, stonily serene.
In her silence is where her answer is heard,
a quiet reply — I know just what she means.
The rock of her tells me what I must hear:
No need to soar nor fly nor flee.
Let black tides flow past me ‘til they clear.
Like this old pale statue, just simply be.
Nov 17, 2024
Nov 17, 2024 at 5:51 AM UTC
Agèd lady sits,
holding her silver and gold —
Anne, Mary, the Son
Anne’s daughter’s the moon,
sits on the throne of wisdom —
crowned in golden stars
Moon begets the Son
who’s fathered by breath of flame —
Both pierced by a spear
Two women, one son —
A motherly trinity
that shines in splendor
Nov 3, 2024
Nov 3, 2024 at 1:53 PM UTC
In the ancient Gothic church
Mother Mary whispers here;
Her stony face looks out at me,
blank eyes that shed a granite tear:
There beneath her warming cloak
a mass of children huddle there,
seeking shelter and maternal love —
their fears and pains that she will bear
are lit by a sea of candlelight
that lifts cares hence, way up high,
borne aloft away from here,
to dissipate in distant skies
Oct 9, 2024
Oct 9, 2024 at 4:32 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
And Whose Fault is That?
Then said Jesus unto the twelve, “Will you also go away?”
Then Simon Peter answered him, “Lord, to whom shall we
go? You have the words of eternal life.”
Catholics are much disapproved of these days
And whose fault is that?
Catholics even disapprove of each other
And whose fault is that?
Lawsuits and lockouts and altars abandoned
And whose fault is that?
The ‘net all clogged with angry Catholic sites
And whose fault is that?
Well, yeah, mine too
We are perfectly free to go away
But we won’t – because He asks us to stay
Dec 5, 2021
Dec 5, 2021 at 8:16 AM UTC
If you're an agricultural enthusiast,
Or gifted tower dwelling urbanite,
I know a priest who’ll bless your cockerel, favorite cow,
pig, sheep (with a predilection for lambs), tractor and
two-seater outhouse,
(I once saw a priest bless Farmer Paul’s load of manure).
He’ll lift a hand over
dog, cat, gerbil, cockatoo,
Foster children, adoptees, naturals and the unnatural.
They will bless people in love;
they will bless their love;
But not the union born from their love.
All love, he will say,
Is Divine.
God does not bless sin, said Papa.
Tsk, tsk... it's only a blessing, for Christ's sake.
Mar 21, 2021
Mar 21, 2021 at 3:54 PM UTC
Heaven mend my heart
for it longs even when he is near,
painful to merely glance upon his learned silhouette
knowing it will soon disappear
For this feels like a pressing punishment
for an ineluctable sin so divine
as to adore another so selflessly
sustaining only by the privilege to christen him mine
Heaven mend my heart!
for it anguishes even when he is far,
Lord, I love him
please do not make us part
Jun 16, 2020
Jun 16, 2020 at 11:36 PM UTC
A foolish people
Has forgotten my ways
They have chosen politics and kissing the Pope's ring
They have cast liberty to the wind
They are not worthy of it.
Apr 19, 2020
Apr 19, 2020 at 1:24 AM UTC
Having been brought up as Catholic,
I was always told that
God was a jealous god.
Jealous.
That there is no room
for other so-called "gods" in his churches,
and that there can be no room for another
in the hearts of his disciples, his children.
Children.
Now, a man of twenty-six years,
I ask, I wonder,
why do we invest our faith in a God
who is jealous, when we ourselves
do all we can to abolish
the jealousy in our own hearts?
Is God so unsure of himself that,
were we to merely consider another,
he would reject us and hold us in contempt?
And yet, he is described as "perfect."
Perfect.
That he need not work to improve himself,
though we here on Earth
do all that we can to come close
to purity and perfection.
As a man of only twenty-six years,
I can tell you with a certain conviction
that God is only a child -
a child in need of guidance, himself.
And I wonder still, more than ever, it seems,
why we look to God at all
and not to ourselves.
Feb 26, 2020
Feb 26, 2020 at 1:45 PM UTC
There is only one true God
So I was told
All others are false
It is He that rules
It was Him who created life
Yet the old stories of others linger
Those who He has proclaimed as false
Those who came before him
He is a jealous man
Hellbent on **********
His followers wish to conquer in his name
To burn all the other gods from the sky
But they refuse to leave
They linger in myths and stories of old
His dark desires will not ***** them out
A dictator in disguise
No more say I
Bring back the gods of old
The tales of the Greeks
The hymns of the Hindus
The legends of the Egyptians
All the gods who were snuffed out
By His “holy” light
Which only cast a dark shadow upon humanity
They say God is infallible
Perfect beyond compare
All things good
All things great
Arrogance is His
The gods of old had faults and flaws
The gods of old suffered as we suffered
They are closer to humanity than Him
They are closer to the Earth than Him
I want the old gods back
They were better than Him
Jan 2, 2020
Jan 2, 2020 at 10:30 AM UTC
It's a phrase I often playfully use to describe my queer self.
("Were you ever?"my beloved Alison uniformly says in jest).
But now it seems unusually apt in another way:
As I swann around this empty house, the decor, the photos, the ornaments and old perfume bottles overwhelm me.
My head is brimming with memories as I glance past these fragments of our shared lives.
My loss is palpable and yet inescapable under this roof.
She surrounds us on the walls, hanging over us with her beaming smile amidst the family photos.
I want to escape but I can't:
In a mad way I want to believe that something of these relics around us can bring her back somehow.
She did after all carry something of the old Irish paganism with her.
But, no, this ancient shamanism is sadly absent in a room drowned out by every token of Catholicism you can think of.
It's all too much for this first born to take and yet she is still here in the tiny gaps of these precious artefacts.
Hidden away where you can't see her.
So, no, being honest right now - I'm not quite straight yet.
The head and heart will realign soon but not with this gnawingly painful grief.
Pray for me.
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 7:43 AM UTC
...And kirchéglise(Notre) dame
o u r l a d y m y l a d y
encyl-able, Pope or Pope or popedeux
and vindicate the waysteland
My caska is openclosed!
(pews is pause is putride and prodigious)
Et tout-en commun?Gizerly pharaoh HA
lf gone.
Source-error of Oz
Ymandias
and dust, and dustinction
god pull downwhich?
or fleurs-de-litigation.
Vini, vu/gesehen, conquered/konkeri?
And tot
And mort
and trunks gefallen.
Fantast-asy—I flail.
pause
S e m p i ternam.
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 10:21 PM UTC
You say your God is your rock and your light
But light can be blinding
And rock may roll
No longer do I feel faith
In an outback church house
Singing with the preachers
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 3:16 AM UTC
My friend's Father,
Who's just that,
Has a Papa Francis.
And her entire congregated family
Won't acknowledge her
Very existence.
How can she communicate.
There's a crack in the crucifix,
And it's splitting, running up the wood,
Past the cruciform,
To the Head.
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 6:15 PM UTC