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Stations of the Cross

by  seanfarragher

Posted: Sunday, March 27, 2005
Word Count: 554
Summary: Songs for an Agnostic's Easter
Related Works: Fountain of Youth • Hurrah, Hooray, Huzzah • Modern Man Discovers Dark Matter • Parnassus • Wonderful History -- • 

Stations of the Cross
Songs for an Agnostic's Easter"

Lewd passion rises every Sunday with the ark
of heat above wars. The dangerous air packed
with simple cry, and at last, the bitch of birds
frolic in the bedroom of the tree-line --
Thighs connect, marry the sacrifice
to the burning bush, to miracles at Lourdes,
and to sex, darling sex, which God only knows
now in the hour of our death amen.


“No one’s dead; none die but reports
from life say all were loved as mouth
dries on skin and every howl lifts arms
to cross many roads that pass the temple
without life or form or dread of finite breath.”


"We are all gods," Unitarians say:
“she is the god of the lips
and tongue; I watch her stem open,
close, and when complete, the orgasm
rushes out of bounds, up the stairs,
explodes in miracles of resurrection
with Easter on the last motion of lilac
when she completes and he mimics love
to welcome all matter in the bed and crown
where the universe leads. Forget dark
matter. Just open known box; let it twitter
as we regal the chances to know
the end of things and beginnings
when one shard of glass slips
in our hands, cuts light from black
while the shadow silent spends against petals of ass.


Liar, they tell God almighty, possessor
of truth and froth of fury, your passion
has not risen out of fist. It never will.
Caught in your throat -- premature ejaculate in entry.

I am not satisfied by lust drawn out of wheat,
straw or the miracles of bread rising in her hands,
when dust, simple flour, sifts out of fingers applied
to psalms and as descent falters with every bud
we appease those who forsake us, are we diseased
and contemptible for attempts to know why life
was holy when the air dies.

We are recused as loud judges made still
in the vestibule when Mass sung in choir Latin
disappeared for death in the rain falls
down the nether highway

No answers for orthodox critics who never
loved once or twice or with abandon, delight again.

We celebrate the resurrection of Christ--
Is truth a myth? Is it a lie to believe
in the edict of fancy? -- is that false
testimony as scripture burns gas in open door
where we stood to be helped or abandoned.

Truth can become that leap of smoke and disease
False is an empty wall, death and finally
the recognition that nothing exists at end
but the grinding remains of the crematorium
and the passage of dust from lips to sweet sex
where pleasure dwells in this ribald tale?

Rise again Easter! Make lust the wonder of it.


There is all life today. Today is the hour
of the failure to breathe when the air plentiful
and pain rings out of the bottom of pearl
red flowers with bristles of green and thorns --
they cut the skull, scar the lights as we witness
last pilgrimage where miracles are codes opened
written down on scrap paper left for demonic fires
suddenly erect in the garden of black corn
flowers risen out of ash and human play.
Here inside sweet Sabbath --
Passover restored; we descend from cross alone.