This is not mine. I kinda wish it was because I really love this, but a friend of mine shared it with me after hearing it live the other night. These are great, (dirty) words (and not for those of you who might be offended by such things.) I had to share it with you because the entire time I read it I smiled and actually laughed out loud a few times… in some ways it’s similar to how I feel about such a sacred act. 😉
Saying Grace Before Eating Pussy
Copyright © 2013 By Curtis X Meyer
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Let us gather now. Bow our heads before this feast,
knowing all food tastes better seasoned by praise: Praise
the arc of back. The holy reservoir. Fountain
spouting at the mouth of pipes. Praise delta.
Briar-patch of surging vessels. Praise toes
that curl in remembrance of the fires they’ve walked through.
In recognition of fires to come. Praise eyes that roll back
beyond reach of her skull, to behold the blackest night of her mind
so that she too, may glimpse you at last, O Lord. Praise hairs
stuck between teeth: Each follicle a codex of genes. Unseen potential.
Script used to sculpt future generations. Each one rising
from our breath shared now as a field of hosannas. Creator,
I stand alone at the gates of Your palace. If it is here
where life is born, then as I gaze through the keyhole
at The Nexus of Creation, I say praise the hand
that grips the back of scalp, pulling me in
so that I may kiss Your face, Lord. For it is here
results appear instantly. Here alone
I am made worthy. Here alone I know
my efforts are appreciated. Here alone I know
appreciation as it drips off my chin. It is here,
beyond the night, beyond the eyes of every conceivable mob,
I know my cause is just. Her cries tell me
I am doing right. Here, all cheques come back early.
Cashed in advance. Returns arrive accelerated. Pulsing
in waves. Here, physical reward becomes actualized. Gratitude
cannot be contained in insincere whispers, nor faked
in the form of two-faced gossip. Gratitude, like laughter, knows only
how to break down floodgates, gushing out relentless and howling. I know
I must do unto others, Lord. I’ve laid armies to waste just to get here.
God spare those denied such privilege. Mercy on those forbidden the taste
of lover’s mouths and bodies. Grace upon those starving, robbed
of their privacy by the will of tyrants. God spare the lonely further judgment
at the hands of that ravenous congregation: They who don’t know
all bedrooms become churches in the dark. Forgive those
who boast they got lucky because they stood still long enough
to reap the benefits. Triumphant in their crusade. As if patience
has anything to do with luck. Let me to eat knowing
others starve, Lord. I take no such food for granted. Forgive
those so callous as say they got lucky. Luck has nothing to do
with meeting objective. Forgive those whose objective is release
without first doing unto others. Our bodies are gifts to ourselves
and a privilege for others. Forgive them
the fruits of orchards they take for granted. Woman,
if you’ve never been made to feel miracle; if you’ve never
been told your body is a temple, I will do things
to you that will make you swear you’re catching The Holy Ghost
in surround-sound. I will dip my hands inside
your holy water. Make The Sign of The Cross upon my brow.
My lips. My heart. Father, I kneel before Your temple a broken man.
Praise challenge. Suffering keeping me alive. Praise asthma
reminding me each breath be precious. Praise the devils
that haunt my lungs, grind my weary bones to dust. I beg you:
Let her scent be what stitches me whole. All these shards
of collapsed armor. Father, sew me back together with her screams.
Praise senses given so that they may be put to good use: Sight. Smell. Taste.
Touch. Praise ears turned outward to welcome choirs
erupting from her throat. Praise sheets turned oasis. The nails
that grip the sheets. Tears that race down cheeks. Pillows grasped and thrown.
Praise the stains that gather. Praise the rain that floods the valley. Praise tears
that race down cheeks, cascading off her chin. Praise thighs
that close tight around ears, drowning out the sounds of bosses.
Sirens. Gunshots. Bombs going off outside our window. Praise distance.
The darkness that bides us time. Praise body. This bed. This sofa.
This backseat. Wherever it is we now conduct our ceremony.
For all feasts are ceremony. All feasts are holy. This
is what communion was always meant to taste like. A feast
is someone else’s famine. Someone else’s excommunication. All feasts
are sanctuary, and I am not yet cast out of the garden.
Bodies are gifts to ourselves. A privilege for others.
Our bodies are cities made of prayer. Let us bow
to feast upon this body. For it is not my name she calls,
but Yours, O Lord. It is not my name she calls,
but Her own. For Yours is The Power and The Glory
now and forever — or at least until morning.
Copyright © 2013 By Curtis X Meyer