Pity the censorious

Hieronymus_Bosch_036

Evil writhes in glistening coils in the

scaled and furred hoofed and clawed

 

glistens in luxury and concupiscence

the moistly slip-sliding of nakedness.

 

Women tempting with apples breasts moon-

buttocked laugh at the pure eyes averted.

 

The paintbrush probes scalpel-like beneath

the skin delighting in entrails devoured

 

and the charred flavour of flaming hair

a dab of the branding iron the flaying knife

 

all the devious instruments for prising out pain

you paint with delectation. Only a priest-painter

 

clothed in the hair shirt of purity and self-

inflicted pain an artist with an aura of sanctity

 

could weigh in the balance

and find so many wanting.

 

Pity the censorious for theirs is the arid desert

of ash the blood-soaked sand of Golgotha.