Slugging For Sweet Jesus

Slugging for sweet Jesus, 
the benign smile melting us to stupefaction - 
a crucifix draped round your neck, 
diabolically pressing its lascivious fingers 
into my needy flesh.  
This thirsty skin, crying 
for the rough thrust of sublimation.  
I want, I need... transubstantiation, 
justification, a fix of revelation, 
the smell of your male flesh enveloping me.  

You can play Rimbaud to my degenerating Verlaine: 
pierce me with your vision, fill me 
with your terrible work.  

A shrug of ether, a pinch of sulphate -
my love, it is late! Let our raiment fall from heaven, 
let the clouds in my head enfold us.  
We can fly to the hot South and share our wings.

Trousers round my ankles - 
the metal of you inside me, churning my viscera 
till I am so soft I fall.  

And in my sleep, away from the sugared hell 
of this anonymous Chelsea Hotel, 
I dream of Armageddon and the Cabaret Voltaire -  
the seven angels of the apocalypse 
concocting a cacophony on harps and horns, 
the devil on the slide trombone,  
a toothless old voodoo man on the drums,  
dancers moving like grease through a sewer, 
smiling insanely, with petro-chemical rainbows 
on their faces,  Dali, dressed as a magician, 
ejaculating faeces from a top hat 
and throwing melting clocks into the numberless void,  
Marcel Duchamp walking forever naked, 
up a stairway backwards...  
and even in my drugged out dreams, 
there is the rhythm and the heat, the constant beat 
of your never satisfied meat 
inside me.