Man as God

My God

The man, tight taut, muscles strung like prayer beads along his torso and back, arched
long,
Exulting in the sacraments of flesh, his body temple a gothic masterpiece of ridges and
ornament,
Lusting for the shape of things, craving the world between his teeth and to bite and to taste the sweetness pomegranate against the void-backdrop.
The end of life, the winnowing of the soul spark, whether to wilt or go on it is the same to the man, He traffics in the world not the dry geometries of metaphysics.
He loves women and men, skin against skin, the body-turbine spinning sparks like woodshavings,
He is an angel, clad in the form-function cloven-hoofed rhyme-ridden skin of a devil.
The grim grinning sin at the heart of pleasure.
And still
He loves, He loves, He loves