He raised her like an anchor; crossed her fingers like parchment;
As burned as a frozen nail
As fixed as the eye of a peacock feather.
He tossed his Bible to the side
And unlocked his collar like a book spine;
These budding lips were made for buggery and bad boys
But they will burn in that underground waste-bin
They call a hell.
She gazed at him like a Juliette balcony, she wavered her hair like sand dunes;
As golden as a wet morning Sun,
As soft as matured breast tissue;
She took his frame and spread him high on her crucifix
And bedded him like a bug, biting at his legs;
These Reverend’s arms were made for kissing Genesis and Isaiah
But they’re bound to soar up into that mansion made for God’s Good Men
They call a heaven.