Mississippi, dog days of summer,
the dogs of hell ever on our trail,
in a run down rural motel we hole up.
Bathing each other, me and her,
in the shower, in the cold waters of the Styx,
bubbling up in the well of this motel.
Clean, for the ceremony, the only ceremony,
I kiss her head as the waters flow over us.
Sins don’t wash away, but uncleanliness does.
I lay her on the bed, naked and vulnerable,
and I come to her, bashful and shivering,
our lips tremble, and they meet in a kiss.
Dogs of hell come close, all the death trip
of gold and power and sadism that clouds
even the holy men, the men that seek God.
They will take us, me and her, Rebel Angels,
wanting to break the game, end the cycle of death.
Our Savior was crucified for trying the same.
We make love, holding nothing back, nothing in.
Trying to break through corrupted flesh
and black hearts and the endless death dream.
Trying to find the stars, the supernova where
Our Lord forged us in eons past, to the moment
God spoke and all things, Good and Evil, came.
Flesh that forgets that it is real, forgets it’s feel,
only us in red giant forges and in the God whose
breath makes you weightless forever and all time.
Make new life in a bad dream that is meat space,
that is weight and gravity and want and pain.
That is all things that fall, fail and pass away.
Still shivering, even after heat of passion
and the forges and the swelter that choke us like tears
and make us unclean again in grit and dirt.
Maybe a child will come, another toss of the dice,
in the crapshoot that is existence and loss.
We kiss soft, and innocent. The Ceremony is done.
The dogs of hell are here.