Reveries of Heresy

Purusha, holy primeval being - Is it true that you  fashioned my brothers from your divine mouth,  and us from your miry feet?  Is that why they are the gatekeepers of the sacred and ideal,  and we the lowly serfs hopelessly jostling  into the Elysian Fields?  Nü Wa, goddess of humanity -   Is it true that  you handcrafted my brothers from  fine golden dust,  but kneaded us  haphazardly from  brown vestigial sludge?  Is that why  they flay our  misshapen bodies with their gilded tongues,  and pound our faces  into the mud?  Yahweh, alpha and omega -  Is it true that you  gave my brothers dominion over the Earth  and household,  but created us  as second-hand helpers to be bought and sold?  Is that why  when they raped us,  we were merely  the defiled goods  of our fathers,  decreed to wed  our desecrators? I have worshipped you  with ...

ACT I Celibate clergy-man Cloaked in a priestly cassock His Sword of The Spirit rises, as hard as King David’s rock. He unclasps his chastity belt To defile the cherubic altar-boy   within the chamber of confessions Veiled by hallowed curtains. The slavish saints  who  spy upon  t his sordid sight Suppress their suspicions   through zealous prayers,   steadfast with downcast eyes. After all,  what bestows them the right, as lowly, subservient  sisters, to question the esoteric rites of the divinely appointed Father? ACT II The boy, now a prodigal youth, lies prostrate on the altar floor stained with the ancestral blood of the children who’ve  lain before. Begging at the feet of Christ till his knees scraped raw and open, He beseeches the seductress spirit of Bathsheba, to be exorcised   In a dark, prodigious omen. He believes it was he who   corrupted the Father with concupiscent desires & a cankerous love, befouling the alabast...

When little Alma  was thrust from within the  warm, dark and cozy waters— into the  cold, bright and sterile theatre of artificial lights  and surgical odours— She did not know her name,   nor know what “love” meant. In fact, she did not even know  what she did not know  or understand. She did not know she’d been cast out from the Garden of Eden, because her ancestress  yearned to procure   wisdom from the serpent.   She did not know that  she was born a sinner— meant to kneel  prostrate at the altar— nor that she had to  spend  her life begging for mercy from the Father. She did not know  that she was born a wayward  and insolent  daughter, who would need to  repent for her sins— like an unworthy,  abominable, creature. She did not know  that her body   would become  a  vessel  for the lust of her brothers— nor that modesty  was her only goodness   that coul...

The blunt edge of the scissor blade  barely penetrates the epidermis.   The sting comes before the red—  Streaks of lightning pave the way for imminent roars of thunder.  Seconds later,  tiny beads of congealed crimson  &  pearlescent plasma e merge from within vein-ravines. The little spheres burst through the claustrophobic capillaries— buoying about the surface  to catch their breaths.  Like microcosms of crystal spheres, they are imbued  with   futures foretold by druids, impregnated with dreams long gone rancid. The globules mingle  and merge into pools of viscous fluid, eventually trickling down my forearm. I have  opened a wound between  reality and dreams— a portal connecting  spirit  with mortal flesh. The melodrama unfolding  on the coliseum of my stratum corneum is strangely endearing— raindrops flowing down  a windowpane  on a stormy evening.  Oedipus gorges his eyes—...