Nectar

… the Breath of Death. The breadth of the Bread and Wine spanned through time denied, Panned off as a pantomime. Recant of crimes before fire and limestone Scour the dire sourpussys. Push away the dour mushy pillow-talk with the whores Who are chopping at our Will-ow’s stalk, causing weeping, And shopping, the creeping Charlie, Is again hardly and American’s friend or hardy ally. The mean meanwhile might mean well But demean the mean and the median. The Medium needs at least a medium mead And a feast to the Beast-demon. I don’t regurgitate words straight from the Scriptures But equip their Source with a coarse course; I’m coherced – cuz the Spirit’s stricter than the letter, For the better, it won’t be bent or Manipulated, yet is somehow recapitulated In CAPITALS or underscore In capitals or more sundry city situations … Satan, get thee under me. I think for once I see the light On the brink of a seething fight Against my conscience like Pontius Pilot I get stuck between releasing a pirate Or making mean schmucks irate. God, please police my P’s and Q’s Before I separate like the PQ; I see through the parrots’ pretense Still scared, I can’t help but be tense. I feel like this must be some freakin split custody Cussing cuz I only see my fussy Father on the weekends, Deking deacons who speak on how the King should be my beacon; Just seems so far it could be Peking, a blue star, or B.B. King. The Son’s BB gun’s begun to sting, How fun it’d be to sing hymns of adoration Instead of these cries of grim deportation My head despises my dim oration I’m led surprised to rise before His prim coronation It’s only proper that this apostate lay prostate But He protests and proffers me his posh fate. Gosh, I couldn’t even crate His cross across the crater created by my sin, greater than the Equator, yet the Creator rates this equivocator worthy of favour. He doesn’t waver as he waves his scepter, a slave receives his waiver, the receptor of the Resurrector’s nectar.