Gloryhole for the Gods
Sanctuary haze and cum-stained glass, where holy hands and filth entwine
The faithful crawl on padded knees,
their sin baptized in latex shine.The priest wears heels, the nuns wear chains,
the saints in lube and rubber knots
Salvation moans in rented rooms,
confession never quite forgot.The chalice spills with burning names,
each prayer a whispered dirty plea
Indulgence paid in trembling thighs,
redemption bought by agony.The confessional is backlit pink,
absolution’s flavored thick and sweet
Each sacred whore who grinds the cross knows grace was always incomplete.
In the red-lit sanctum, bodies kneel and faces blur
A city’s shadow swallows prayer where shame
and hunger stir.Behind the confessional’s black silk drape, holy men count bills
And worship is a hunger pang the sacred never fills.Heels click on marble floors,
latex gloved in trembling need
The nuns wear locks and crucifix,
the parishioners just bleed.No absolution granted here,
the price is written on the skin
And nothing holy ever grows from where the rot sets in.
The priest applies his makeup thick, mascara bleeding through the mass
He smears the ashes, burns the flesh,
then welcomes sinners in for class.He teaches lust with scripture quotes,
a tongue that drips with filth and verse
He sells indulgence, rents his faith—redemption always comes reversed.The
altar’s crowned with broken toys, the candles flicker, melt, and weep
Confession comes in rented rooms where secrets fester,
never sleep.The holy water’s mixed with spit, the gospel lost beneath the noise
A congregation lined for pain, their faith repurposed, stripped of joys.
No witness to their trembling prayers but saints with wrists in leather tied
The holy texts are tattered porn, the sacraments recast in pride.He counts the cash,
then swallows blame, a stained glass arch above the filth
A pulpit slick with body’s ache,
a sermon thick with dirty guilt.No God in sight but watching eyes,
reflected twice in mirrored walls
Forgiveness is a fever dream—a slip, a cry,
a stained stall.The blessed kneel with parted lips,
the angels moan and demons grin
The only dogma left is want, the only gospel, burning skin.
Redemption is a practiced act, performed for saints who never judge
A rosary of latex beads, a tithe of groans,
a river’s sludge.The choir wails for Friday nights,
the preacher chokes on borrowed sin
And everyone who leaves the pews still finds damnation grinning in.What
faith remains is slick and raw, a liturgy of unrepentant flesh
A holy writ scrawled down the thighs,
a body marked for one more session fresh.There is no future in the pew,
no past to haunt the pleasure’s cost—Just ghosts who leave their secrets here
And count the innocence they’ve lost.