"sybarites" poems
It's over, its done ...
American Christianity stumbles forward
toward a cruel topsy-turvy world where
help is weakness, compassion is cruelty
& divisive isolation is preferable to
welcome & concern.
American Christianity is a corpse that reeks,
a veritable Walking Dead of pink-tied
Conservatism that picks its leaders
based on a sort of simple country-boy
belief that a fat white man in a suit who
holds aloft his momma's old bible while
same the same time preaching division,
exclusiveness, hate & bigotry is somehow
the best Christian choice & God loves that
man so,
they do this,
they continue to do this,
this rural fundamental upside-down way
of seeing the worst man as the best man
just because he spouts for some phrases
& gets all blessed & such by richly dressed
ministers of the lord who anoint him as the
Chosen One, which is so far off the mark
as to leave one wondering who? who?
who are these representatives of God's
word on earth,
these shiny shoe lackeys, these fork-tongued
well-heeled sybarites closer to Lucifer's
world of consumption & the almighty dollar,
American Christianity should just call it
a day, just give over for awhile, take a
breather & read a book or two, for the
harm they cause to fall on the rest of
us through their ignorant vision is just
way, way too much for them to be able
to claim any affinity with Jesus
the humble Son of God.
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 2:32 PM UTC
We were good.
While you were ****** and I was intoxicated.
I saw you through a Rosé tinted wine glass and felt your eyes caress me through the
Constant,
Concupiscent
THC haze.
We were junkies.
Sybarites on substances,
Addicted to lingered kisses.
****** on lust, wrapped golden.
Eye to eye and skin on skin.
Our altered minds in synchronicity.
Our bodies
pulsing
pulsing
pulsing
To instinct's beat, the almost thereness.
The best bit was always the almost thereness
while high as a kiteness because
After there,
Comes
Here and nowness
And
my mouth is dry
And your lips are tight
And you won’t speak to me.
So I try to ask you if...
But you shut your eyes so you don’t hear me and I know the answer.
You make me hate myself almost as much as you hate me so I know you’ll never love me.
But.
Your lips part in the coldest lie as we lie cold and lonely,
In the shared bed.
Sober and resentful.
La petite mort melancholic.
Me? Do I hate you too?
No!
I just don’t like you any more.
I’m not sure that I ever did.
Apr 2, 2018
Apr 2, 2018 at 8:01 PM UTC
When I was small there were Boys and Girls,
and bisexual and gay were risque worlds.
Now, there are flavours for every taste.
Are we all, secretly, sybarites and epicureans...?
May 17, 2020
May 17, 2020 at 2:56 PM UTC