My Church

My Church

In my church
the followers are both
Bound and unbound
by crude jokes, heated sexual flings and
a mutual hatred for conformity.
The pews are lawn chairs and recliners,
with Cosmo and Playboy for scriptures.
They worship all and no one,
believing in nothing and everything
without regard for holy words
engraved in the sides of buildings,
or for century-old books
with a magical man
whose father lives in a cloud.
They speak of rock music,
Of hook-ups, gambles, and the rope
They used to tie up their most recent lover.
When the last joint is shared,
all have belted their fucks and shits,
after the last man has coveted,
and the daily dose of gluttony is fulfilled,
the perfectly imperfect non-congregation
have praised.