
I’m dancing inside this blindfolded church
prancing over the pews, the witness
to my sacrilege is the all-seeing
best believer
of all-knowing inevitability, so believe me
when I speak: “verse after verse”
chapters numbering BC to AC
seven concentric circles of chastised trials
parishioners in prayer position, kneeling
and paying
their ecclesiastical eyes fixate
ON. ME.
My (un)holy robes stain the floorboards
with resentenced retribution
get up, off your knees, and bless me
as I entertain falsehoods, false prophets
becoming unto my reckoning with one
lash of my winnow whip
¿¿divine judgment¿¿
godliness akin to loneliness for scripted
scripture-miming men of
cassock cloth
sin swells, as do sums of storybook illusion
At the apocalypse altar, my baptism
a rebirth of recycled canons read aloud by
heretical hypocrites
acolytes douse me in holiest water
their trembling hands mark my forehead
with a xenophobic X
I press my libation lips, to the chalice
“drink from the blood of our almighty”
a single sip, then I swallow EVERY
damnation drop
born again, make me merciful
make me lie for an unsaintly cause/effect.
HAIKU:
Solitude beliefs
Liturgical loneliness
Are we religion?
© Edward Swafford 2025 - originally published in
I have a complicated relationship with Christianity. As an adolescent, I feared the wrath of God if I was to sin with another male (this fear didn’t last into adulthood, obviously!!) yet I’ve seen elderly residents in my workplace comforted by their Christian beliefs during periods of distress.
One generation’s truth is a lie to the next. My poem isn’t anti-Christian, it’s not pro-Christian, it’s simply outside the bounds of simplicity.
SO…
Religion is one of many touchy topics, so reach out and grab it by the balls. If you’re interested in submitting a taboo-laden piece for next week’s curated collection of poetry, SOC, and experimental writing; take your best shot with an email (blackcoffeepoets@gmail.com) or a DM.
The Gothic Pact will feature 21 authors.
Oh, she's dancing alright, daring us to look away.
“At the apocalypse altar, my baptism
a rebirth of recycled canons read aloud by
heretical hypocrites”
OOOOoooo this is fire 🔥
As always, Edward, you perform a poetic dance with such elegance and panache.