knead/kneel
how i miss those soft, grey times
gathered in a dim room
awaiting the unleavened bread
baked next door with shaking hands
before being torn and consumed
passed around like a whore
the flesh of the son
taken into soft mouths
and willing throats
Stu Buck
Fri 3rd Jun 2016 17:57
you know, i never had the faith in the first place to lose. this is a hazy memory of my cult times, a sabbath 'celebration' we all took part in that i always found curiously Lynchian in its metaphor and dreamlike state. I have, of course, sexualised it needlessly, but then thats my thing baby!
and you are quite right. worship at the temple of god/desire. its all the same.