Richard Faircloth

The Angel of Love,
In Her Mercy,
Plays in the Dirt

God is love – what love and
which god/dess are negotiable.

The eyes are the windows
to the crotch, and yours say
puppy wants a collar.

Oops – correction: they say busted, guilty
puppy wants a collar.

Yeah-huh, chickenshit –
I’m the fuck police
and I know where you live.
I’ve got a box of crucifixion nails
and a slow hammer
with your name on it, boy,
and if I have to sweat you all night
you’ll spill every sick, submissive thing
your self-disgusted heart desires,
and I won’t give a fuck
until you’re a hopeless mess
of tears, and snot, and shame;

perv.

Then I’ll tenderly clean your face,
kiss your forehead,
and Holy Fuck your filthy brains out;

and such is the power of My grace
that when you come, you’ll come clean –

innocent and shameless,
crying in My arms.

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