Genau, genau, frock’d-head, the Pope
He said, a stave or two on hope
that curled like newborn in the ashen
camps of—what? the dry cleaning back
tomorrow? i’ve a country to condemn
for (what was it?), ah yes, ah yes,
Gregory’s calendar tossed for Roman numerals
and epicurials, and grapes.
Was gibts, Herr? There was a silent
pile of white-shrieked robes muddled
on a dais made of wood, of wiles
that through the ages dulled and no one
cleft their ears to have a piece of it!
out with it! Dis-moi! before Batholomew
comes back with SR-85s, rubber grip
gun-slung Catholic pride, oh you’d care
for the threshold of pain, you’d care
for the stain on the hope
your father baked for us all, but women
and i think the homosexuals–yes I said it!
oh god damn me! adjutorium meum, and
pax, but it was unleavened after all those
loaves. shit hit the fan in the 50s
when the money was recoiled, i can’t remember—
the 50s of St. Peter or 50s of the willies
wanking, Korean bombadillo MASH’d up the
countryside, and brotherside, and alle seit,
also, the end is coming. but Tillich
was sure enough to know his hell:
what end is worse than now befelling
How many of us rape the nubile death

there, Thomas, FASTER, Thomas, knell!