absinthe, bath house, ces couleurs pervers, Christ of the Phallus, Holy Ghost, homoerotic, sonnet
I have gone down on Christ of the Phallus.
I have sucked dry the Lord of Divine Hosts.
Let men brag about conquests. When Jesus
came he filled my mouth with the Holy Ghost’s
jizm. When he dribbled absinthe across
his god-like cock I prayed to the wild green
fire in its crystal shrine, Fairy-fuck sauce,
as I licked each massive ball squeaky clean.
Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder. Hashish
and bath house gangbangs made for great threesomes,
sticky trinity. We were stoned, puckish,
immaculate. We were smutty pilgrims.
We found, between a prophet’s cock and ass,
all of faith sleeping in an absinthe glass.