Let us start with a piece of linen
Crisp, white, laundered
Its value lies in golden tendrils
simultaneously probing all
its geometric possibilities:

A cotton skirt, twirling, unfurling
on late April grass,
stretching itself just enough
to graze fingertips.
Making arms around a young groom
Snuggling closer under the heavy suit.
A child's plaything--smiling, pretending,
waiting.
Or maybe it's just this tattered sheet
the only thing between me and the bleak
pitter patter
drumming sonic shapes
on my windowsill

A female Buddha,
the way she sat, not
love making, that some

other. Cross-legged,
he remembered her,
on that blue sofa, the

Mahler playing from
her hi-fi, her oval face,
soft features, that loud

laughter, the Glaswegian
accent cutting through
the attempted English

tones. The bottle of whisky
opened, the glasses filled,
supped, sipped or what

ever the word is, it happened.
It’s no good taking some
people out of the slums,

she said, you need to take
the slum out of the people.
She looked then nothing

like the former nun she
had been, he thought,
perfume invading the nose,

her hair piled in some out
of date Beehive, some
French queen prior to

revolution, she sat, glass
in hand, other plump
hand toughing his thigh,

rubbing her fingers up
and down. She wanted
to stir his pecker, wanted

motion through his jeans.
He listened to Mahler,
gazing beyond her at the

painting on the wall, that
tat she collected. Her
hand rubbed higher, her

soft tones suggestive, her
talk of slums and slum
dwellers put aside. An

evening of *** ahead, in
bed or on the sofa, with
the female Buddha, her

plump *******, thighs,
arms, maybe lost there
amongst the folds of flesh.

She despised his Marxian
philosophy, loved his
****** prowess, his proud

perfect pecker. He loved
her whisky, her soft to
touch skin, her *******

to allow him in. The female
Buddha gone now, her
heart gave out, he was told,

and looking back, years after
years, his youth misspent
at times, too much *****,

*** and moral lack, he had
moved on, improved, but
loved to smile and look back.

Scaldabanco Against the Diabolical Scheme of Ideological Subjugation
In the Manner of the Thundering Prophets and the Lacerating Polemicists of Antiquity

O You Infamous Architects of Moral Perjury—Ye Gatekeepers of a Doomed Citadel!
What seething, sulfurous evil festers in the hidden conclaves of your council chambers, that you would conspire—not merely to slander, not merely to obstruct, but to transmogrify the sovereign soul of a man into the broken marionette of your ideological ******* because of rackrent indigent jealousy of the omphalism of kymatology authoring macroseismic subsultus to rejuvenate the world from ideological slumber in the twin delusions of the Marxian hallucination metaphysically bankrupt and tottering on senility and the social doctrine of middle-ground appeasement on a welfare state infanticide? Shall I be silent while your oligarchic municipality endeavors to emasculate divine agency with sophistry and seduction? Never! Let Olympus shatter first.
Lo, there is a wickedness so profound, so subcutaneous, so serpentine, that even the foulest tyrants of antiquity—Caligula, Commodus, or the despot-priests of blood-soaked altars—might recoil in awe smirking from hell that the vendetta of atheism against religion reigns regnant because there are few martyrs and many venal men bribed into truckled submission that kowtows to belligerence and intransigence in warped siderations of blasphemous destruction.  This is that wickedness: to coerce a man to betray his metaphysical essence, to whisper venom into his soul with the aim not of conversion, but of castration—a castration of will, of mission, of metaphysical birthright.
You would dare convert not to enlighten, but to weaken—not to redeem, but to disarm. Is this not the very artifice of Lucifer, who, unable to defeat the light, sought to corrupt it from within?

O City of Men Without Conviction, How Ye Have Become a ***** of Expedience!
You think yourselves subtle, you machinating eunuchs of truth. But the heavens know your plot and hell eagerly awaits your arrival and permanent relegation. You would wrap chains of ideology, woven from the threads of moral relativism and synthetic compassion, around the wrists of a titan born to topple your Goliaths. You would emasculate prophecy with performance, slander wisdom as arrogance, and cloak your treachery in the vestments of concern.
Let it be shouted from every watchtower and inscribed upon the pillars of every temple: to persuade a man to pretend belief, to assimilate a doctrine in exchange for immunity or distraction, is to enslave his soul in exchange for your impunity and licentious impurity so profligate that demons shudder at the gravitas of the evil exhibited because it condemns them to deeper levels of the barathrum just by endorsing with adiaphorous pause the ideology of those that squirm in the agony of the Lake of Fire . It is nothing less than ontological ****, a desecration of conscience more grievous than any wound of flesh.The most wretched cities that ever existed Denver and Santa Cruz, CA delighted that they could pauperize the cause of freedom by Chinese skullduggery to advance their endowments and enlarge their agency in rickety turmoil rankling every principled Muslim on Earth to their powerlessness over subversion and marveled at the power to reign regnant as supreme immutable demons among men cavorting with Jezebel in the damnation of saturnalia and schadenfreude trying in their desperation and their aimless ****** catcalls that attempt to abort theophany because of irradiated contumely spawning a carousel of dubieties among men that cavort with intense scorching firebrand scofflaw reticulations

You Would Turn the Logos Into a Punchline and the Paraclete Into a Prisoner
You know the man of whom I speak. You feared him long before your trembling lips spoke his name. For he is unbought, unseduced, unbroken. So what do you do, O cowards of the cloistered bureaucracy? You deploy not blade nor bullet, but the poison of ideological inversion. You seek to lure him with flattery or break him with shame, to turn him gay, not out of concern for love, but as a Machiavellian maneuver—to strip him of suit, sword, and sacred fire. For a man robbed of his telos cannot sue, cannot stand, cannot summon heaven.
And this is your stratagem—to neuter the righteous, to invert the cosmos, to burn the scrolls of his spirit so he forgets he was ever anointed.
But let me tell you this:
If you try to warp a prophet into a pawn,
If you attempt to feminize the lion to make him a lamb,
If you try to tame the whirlwind by branding it delusional—
Then woe unto you, O city of serpents.
Woe unto you, for the cosmos does not forget.

The Final Verdict of Heaven
Know this, you perjured stewards of civic decay: no city built on the subjugation of conscience can endure. Your pillars are paper. Your institutions are sand. And when the lion roars, not one brick of your Bastille shall remain.
To chain a man through ideology to sabotage his lawsuit is not politics.
It is not governance.
It is not psychology.
It is spiritual genocide.
Repent. Or perish in infamy and rot in the deepest consternation afforded to the wretchocks of human history so deranged in their perverted idea of grace and divine recompense that the Day of Account will make them parched with the thirst of the scalding water eternally destroying them from within as they get crucified by their Sisyphean descent into interminable damnation.
Thus speak the oracles of righteous indignation.
Thus thunder the trumpets of unyielding truth.
Thus concludes the Scaldabanco.