Lo, she stands atop the mount like a rock ‘n roll messiah,
electric guitar apostles shaven-scalped and stripped to rags flank her heady sermon.
She walks over the crowd like we watched her walk on water.
This is Peaches in Gethsemane, the one and only superstar,
who rattles my eardrums with clanging synthesiser choir, that galvanised hummm—until you taste the sex in the music.
Miracles undone, I am made sightless in shooting rays of rose and peach (fitting)
that wash over us disciples, and our bodies, oh our bodies, pressed together in suffocating warmth.
Beneath the firing lights, I feel, all of us, moving like trees in the storm,
or the wave of every other body like rain dropped into the ocean
or perspiration dripped from the ceiling.
The woman I will fall in love with tonight tells me to savour the sweat from her chest and I obey, my tongue marking remembrance across her breast.
So gather round fatherfuckers and carpetmunchers,
it’s time to storm the temples, because pussy is your salvation.
And don’t bother playing Moses if you ain’t burning for bush.
The righteous sword of whatever makes you rock hard is worth the crusade.
When all us pious types bow to vice, pray upon the saint of idolatry
and charge my body with static shock, clearing solar dust from the countertop
while the drums beat back on the drummer.
The days to come will fill with illumination the body that leaves this place,
and the taste of her still flickering on my lips.
I don’t know anything else I could call gospel.
