Mother fucker Priest, Keep me in your prayers.
"I texted Bruce: I'm working on my new poem “Mother fucker Priest Keep me in your prayers.” I don't know where it came from. from nowhere?"
Bruce texted back: "It came from somewhere.”
He is right; there's a church around Windmill Street that..."
"Gustave M goes and recites prayers every Saturday at 4 pm.
" He believes that the God of Christ is the God of mercy. I didn't say anything out of respect for him, but Tuesday after our conversation, when I got home, I was screaming inside myself... This poem might be the continuation of that scream."
windmill
windmills
wind
windy wind
windmills church
mother fucker priest
pray for me in your prayers
tell your God that I am dying
with hundreds of bullets in my body
a broken heart
broken hand
broken breath
tell him I am dying
a windmill church
a windmill priest
mother fucker priest
Do you think your God is different than theirs.?
the God of those who shot me a hundred times
hit me on my eyes
eyes that used to see the sea
and the mermaid who came from the sea to reach the fisherman
Mother fucker priest, do you know the fisherman?
if your God is different
if your God is real
why didn’t you see
my wounded, naked body?
And the flames in my hair?
the smell of burning tattoos
they tore up my emotion
I escaped from Dante’s Inferno.
I passed through the rocky plains, deserts, and mountains.
on burnt roads.;
On the road where girls were sleeping in their blood
mother fucker priest
Can you put my broken pieces together?
I have come a long way.
I have crawled on the roads
I have wandered on the roads
I saw things you have not seen.
Little girls with budding flowers of kisses
open hands yearning for love,
a dance not yet danced, twirling in their ankles,
withered smiles on their lips.
Little girls who aged on their deflowering beds
torn apart,
piece by piece.
Mother fucker priest
if your God cares,
why don’t you hold me in your arms?
why don’t you kiss me?
why don’t you embrace me?
Put your hand under my aging skin
That wrinkles to the ground
pull up the skin of my youth
clothe me with my youthful pinkness
Where are the knights?
The sleeping drunken knights?
in which direction have they gone?
I saw gold seekers
intoxicated and ruined
collect the tears of little girls,
thinking they were pearls
with girls’ cries, they went crooked, thinking it was wind
they cut off the fingers of the girls in hope of gold
they opened their anklets with hammers
they grabbed budding breasts to remove their golden necklaces.
the necklaces are made of seashells.
gold seekers left the church share aside,
Or the share for mosques and shrines
decapitated heads,
limp fingers,
bloody legs.
Tell me, what is love?
What does your God say about women, life, and freedom?
(What does your God know about burnt-faced women?)
What is the difference between your God and theirs?
Are angels unveiled?
Is life punishment?
love is on the executioner’s block.
Gold seekers held the mouths of little girls who prayed
mother fuking priest.
You took the earth on your penis, you and them, turning it upside down.
In your vortex of belief, you are drowning
Do you know what mother fucker priest?
if your God is different
then come to me
sleep in the church with me
kiss me and hug me
in the church
in windmill church
if your God is different,
sing the song of love,
dance the dance of life
and remember those
who lost their lives