Requiem for a Demi-god

 

 

"Here lies a toppled god,

His fall was not a small one,

We did but build his pedestal,

A narrow and a tall one."

                        --Frank Herbert

 

 

When the silver whistle blew

and the locked door burst,

and they bore witness

to the shower of wood dancing

on her bare breasts,

your bare ass,

your belt binding your ankles

like a wedding band,

whos' shock was stronger?

theirs, at seeing clear

your inevitable humanity

under the chiton of godhood

stripped from you like an outcast

Pharoah, at seeing for once

(and with eyes lowered not in reverence

but glum, dejected acceptance)

that yes, you too were a man,

had a cock?

Or your shock, the shock

of an icon purged

from a mountain top, falling

like Satan from your cool summit

through the cool air

only to belly-flop into a hot spring?

The shock of loss- to lose faith

in a father-figurehead, or to lose

in one swoop the comfort

and ease of adoration, which

would be worse?

 

When the silver whistle blew,

I wonder what shade of white

your face turned.

Could it have been snow-white?

The color of innocence, an angels'

garb, chastity?  Did you beam

this white with confidence

and while on fire pound

her pulpit breasts screaming

a benediction of lust for them,

and did they scream back hallelujah?

Hardly.

I suspect it was the more earthly,

oily white color of the cum

you anoited her crucifix with,

the overused white of an empty

Bic-pen.  I think your face

turned a drained, shallow,

paler shade of white

like that forgotten collar

still hanging from your neck, an unbroken

circle gleaming in the murky dim

like the burden Christ bore.