Liar...fornicator to the ministry
southern preacher speaks outcast
“Don't come to mass
every Sunday wearing hats!”
I seen him without his mask
down at the Back Door Lounge
with those tall shafts spiking:
“Stilettos in the air knows easy access!”
it's all a snap in the crotch of lust
with wide brims conceiving...
“Who has the winning ticket?!”
self servants to Jesus Christ shout:
“False fronts are their apparels!
Your going to burn in hell harlot!
Whores!! Repent yourself!”
parading with fish nets
selling tickets with garters high
singing holy art thou name
always spoken in vain
self righteous healers knocking
on everyone's front door...

They came to see me yesterday.
Sneering their unworthy thoughts at me
through their eyes and gold jewelry.
My skirt is short and my lipstick is in the house.
Yes my knees are dirty... with mud from earth
as my fingers probe enrichment's soil
“Hey, Bartender give everyone a round.”
planting wicked seeds
on the innocent flesh he smokes stale cigars
blown hard with screening deceptions
from the nubby palms stroking
forbidden zippers are waxed
unlocking their swollen secrets
of self growing serpent's rising
which penetrate with deep rods
where holier secrets
cannot be stolen..ever
from the velvet petals
of her sweet surrender sheltered within
as jubilation celebrates knowing
the holy communion of love with citrus wine
and that stale bread we break to share.

Deservance is always earned
like being trustworthy...there it is again
touching the fountain of holy waters offering
one.. two... three...we motion the sign language
with wet finger tips touching and giving
to our foreheads with symbolic crosses
your hearts in prayers of speaking tongues
...again we must...wade slowly...slower...enjoy
distractions are the key to sinner's redemption
(...that's what he wants you to believe)
pick up speed...miles ahhh minute...seconds
are the countdown building eruptions servitude
to finish and spew the fluidity of seminal truth
your face creamed with his pleasure of disgust
as cross redemption's embrace archers crucifixion
halleluiah be thy name...

kneeling to alters sacral pew lighting candles worship
while mahogany woods bleed real secrets
holding onto the validity of sinful eyes deceiving
telling believable truth of his hidden facade
knowing tattered tales learn through collections
of the maple tree where her youthful sap is
drilled with spouts cork screwing nozzle
echoing without sin her wounds cover nocturnal scars
as he holds his weak penis with self righteous delight
pretending to be someone he is not..nor will ever be
beckoned by that damn family tree...naked with lies
he crawls in worm holes with curses on all fours
after she falls asleep without the net of safety or trust
placing Sunday nickles inside cross bows tidy lie
reaching for the silver plated forgiveness
as yet another womanly soul is deceived...

(Written: June 27th, 2010 4:14 p/m)
© Poetess Victoria L. McColley