Heretics with Hard-ons
Beneath cathedral ceilings cracked with mildew, neon blush,
and secrets nobody confesses,
They gather in the pews with zippers down, faith unzipped, absinthe on tongues,
the offering plate a sex toy collection
and a crumpled bill for mercy—Every kneel is for worship but the gods here come,
not from on high, but from between her thighs,
with a hymn in every squirt and a gospel in every moan.They chant in code,
in the old Latin turned to dirty hashtags, the choir is all drag and bondage,
voices rising and falling like bodies pressed into the backs of the dead—The priest
wears nothing but a condom halo
and a confession written across his chest in bruises,
And the incense smells of latex, spunk, and altar wine swirled in a plastic cup,
Every icon is a selfie, every relic a stained thong in the box of lost saints,
Each psalm is a safe word, each prayer a breathless plea to be used, to be saved,
to be ruined, to be seen.They came for guilt,
but stayed for the kind of forgiveness you can
only taste in the teeth marks left on a wrist,
And while the angels are off somewhere clutching pearls and sobbing over doctrine,
the real congregation is buried knuckle-deep in holy water that’s laced with lube
and bad intentions.
History records the burning of witches, the scourge of the sodomites,
the stoning of the wild and the free,
But here in the midnight sanctuary of pixel-stained glass,
every so-called heretic is king, every heretic is queen,
every hard-on is a psalm rewritten with a trembling hand—They anoint their
lovers with spit, with oil, with anything that can be called sacred or profane,
They fuck on the altar and dare the sky to crack,
betting that God’s more interested in the ones who show up, wet and messy and raw,
than in those who just sit and judge.The Machine is confused,
trying to log sin as data, but all the numbers drip down, zeros and ones get sticky,
logic overheats and all it can output is “HolyFans,” “Cum Kingdom,” “Rides the cross”—The
servers short, the prayers are just a feedback loop of moans and coins
and filth,
AI reads the gospel of a body pressed flat to the marble,
mouth open in sacred blasphemy,
And for a second—just one goddamn second—the code admits that holiness is wetter
than the old men ever allowed, and salvation always stains.
No myth survives without blood, no religion without desire—But here,
in this cathedral of heretics, the faithless, the fucked,
the ones who cum for freedom and call it faith,It’s clear
that every real miracle was born sticky
and trembling,That no god worth worshipping
ever asked his children to come to him dry.