Flesh Prison

flesh prison

There are only a few people

Allowed to touch my skin

Every contact leads to crawling hands

Remnants of him

I can’t explain this to friends

Even those I consider family

How to say that every touch

Leaves me feeling dirty.

#iconic, chappell is iconic

Beautiful poem, but please stop eating god

Theophage

———

I glut myself on ichor,

Lining my stomach with flesh and bone and bread and wine,

Consuming body and soul,

I must eat until I am bloated with excess,

Till even the thought of a crumb more makes me gag,

I must eat more than my fill of sin,

Partake in an orgy of gluttony and consumption,

Indulge in liquor and sweets,

Cold cuts and cream,

Meat I cannot observe too closely,

Or I’ll see the gold-glinting blood,

The shining proof of a soul so far beyond comprehension snuffed out,

In my name,

For this false self’s sake,

They bring me slice after slice,

Diced and fried and baked and roasted over charcoal-wood fires,

Glitter dripping from the meat into the flames,

I wish they’d feed the fire instead of me,

It is impossible to think ambrosia decadent,

Once you’ve seen the still corpse of a god strung up,

Leaking sweet lifeblood into a goblet for you to drink.

Jesus died upon the cross

To cleanse us of our sins

Lies told by scared old men

Scared of change we bring.

5 metres or less

The window’s open

Birds have neared for the night

Is it time to fly

Unfurl wings of dreams

To plummet like a stone.

then eat with your mouth closed, uncultured swine.

Theophage

———

I glut myself on ichor,

Lining my stomach with flesh and bone and bread and wine,

Consuming body and soul,

I must eat until I am bloated with excess,

Till even the thought of a crumb more makes me gag,

I must eat more than my fill of sin,

Partake in an orgy of gluttony and consumption,

Indulge in liquor and sweets,

Cold cuts and cream,

Meat I cannot observe too closely,

Or I’ll see the gold-glinting blood,

The shining proof of a soul so far beyond comprehension snuffed out,

In my name,

For this false self’s sake,

They bring me slice after slice,

Diced and fried and baked and roasted over charcoal-wood fires,

Glitter dripping from the meat into the flames,

I wish they’d feed the fire instead of me,

It is impossible to think ambrosia decadent,

Once you’ve seen the still corpse of a god strung up,

Leaking sweet lifeblood into a goblet for you to drink.