GOSPEL OF THE GOLDEN DICK

In the beginning was the Word,

and the Word was my dick...

holy, rising like Scripture the church forgot.

Saints would blush.

Prophets would kneel.

Gabriel would drop the trumpet

and stare.

I am Revelation in human skin,

a gospel written between my thighs.

Alhamdulilah

for every man who wasted me

their absence carved the throne I sit on.

Amen to that.

Christ died for sins;

I rose for pleasure

three days?

Honey, I resurrect nightly.

I carry Rumi in my breath

and war in my hips.

I grind like a dervish

spinning the entire universe

into a single moan.

Let the angels clutch their pearls.

Let the muezzin lose his voice.

Let the priests confess to me instead

I absolve through touch.

My kisses are psalms,

my hands are miracles,

my cock is the burning bush

Moses couldn’t look at.

And still...

I walked away brighter than Gethsemane at dawn.

Brighter than the Mount of Transfiguration.

Brighter than every man who ever doubted my light.

Let them call it blasphemy.

Let them call it madness.

Let them call it desire.

I call it destiny.

I am the saint of sinners,

the sinner of saints,

the prophet of pleasure,

the Sufi of skin,

the Christ of my own rebirth.

And every boy who failed to hold me

will spend the rest of his nights

worshipping a memory

he was never holy enough

to touch.

Alhamdulilah.

Amen.

And so it is.