The Whore Inside (Poetry)

There’s a part of me wants to
strip the clothes off prudish people
and rub their sad stick-bodies together just to see
if I can make a little fire —
some spark to show they’re human
after all — that there’s still blood
and need and lust for basic joys
buried not so far beneath
each rattling dried-out husk.

I wish I knew why they appear content
to live such grey and loveless lives
stuck rigid in their arid-mindedness
so very scared of feeling much at all
they cannot be themselves — dare not let go
of all those wrong-headed ideas that others
have forced upon them.

Such suppressed appetites cannot face
a feast of flesh — warm offerings
to please the gods with what is real and true
it seems they can no longer express charity
born out of nature’s wild and wanton impulse
for their desire is dead — real passion long ago
watered down to a safe non-alcoholic
tepid substitute for wine.

All the while the whore inside is sleeping
drugged and dreaming of the good old days
when life still had an element of fun
before the surly puritans put on
their killjoy cast iron chastity belts
and so misquoted poor old Jesus
that they screwed up his simple message
and short-changed everyone.