I hear you
preaching
still
from your performance
pulpit,
the shit-pit of sermon
where you scared
the simple man.
I hear you
still
preaching
of parish and prayer
with your manners moody
at mass
with the mouldable masses.
Years later
over dinner
and before dessert
you spilt your sins
between the bread and wine,
your collar in the car
and your blessed ring
upon your manhood.
We can dress in robes,
we can fuck who we want,
but you can’t preach before the choir
if you take boys in for hire.
All words and drawings by Damien B. Donnelly