"I have seen glistening men, hirsute or smooth,
but no alluring luster's in his face.
And I've known even yokels less uncouth
clutching their men in graceless long embrace."

"I like to hear my lover's tuneful shower,
but any glories there are merely myths,
for though his songs indeed my spunk empower,
the truth is that he all too often lithps."

"And yet I swear my man's to me more real
than hunky clones who, unrehearsed, can't feel."

Or this…

[b]Sour Grapes for Quean Lutibelle (aka Louie Crew)[/b]

"Don't think
I want to be
a queen
the kind
Lady Di
wants to be,

wouldn't want
every bloke
licking the back
of my picture,

I don't jiggle
next to just
anyone's
balls.

I prefer
to choose
those that
lick,
scratch
or fondle
me.

[b]Closet Mantra[/b]

"If I
If I could
just get
just
just
get all
all those balls
balls and arms
arms and legs
legs and crotch perfumes
right here
here inside with me
I might never
I might never have to tell
never tell anyone
anyone at all
I'm queer!
queer! queer! queer!"

Or this by Crew…

[b]View from One Porn Booth[/b]

"I wonder whether
God drew the blinds
and turned off the lights
when he made the penis."

"Did he use blue light
and pump quarters
for more flesh?
Or was he in a bright lab
with beakers of sample juices?"

"In what holes
did he try it out for fit and feel?"

"Was he excited,
or just pleased to find one space
for pee and sperm to share?"

Or consider the following from a British poetry site, but not necessarily Anglican:

"He told sensuous choir boys at camp that he knew why they had warts on their palms, smirking at their averted glances. He dreamed always of immaculate conceptions even while he rubbed raw against the zipper of his sleeping bag."

"Christ never touched the twelve till Judas gave him deep throat!"

"The Holy Family nuclearized, unsplittably, just behind his uneven bushy eyebrows."

"When he died of prostate cancer, a former acolyte whom he'd kicked out of scouts for fellatio undertook his body carefully, sealed his raw bum with a tiny gold cross which had been blessed at Canterbury." From Panic! Poetry, South London (UK).

And for another bit of outrage, you can buy this for a mere $15.00 at the Episcopal Bookstore; What Would Buffy Do? The Vampire Slayer as Spiritual Guide. What Would Buffy Do? explores the fascinating spiritual, religious, and mythological ideas of television's hit series Buffy the Vampire Slayer--from apocalypse and sacrifice to self-reliance, redemption, and the need for humor when fighting our spiritual battles. St. Paul would not agree.

And to round off the absurdity comes this from the homoerotic parish of All Saints Episcopal Church in Pasadena, California.

Something called "The Oblations" includes in The Great Thanksgiving the following lines:

Priest: Glory be to God for human difference--for oddballs, crackpots, eccentrics and nerds;

People: For lovers of all colors, creeds and kinds;

Priest: Bless all the people, the conformed and the nonconforming, and especially the odd…

And you wonder why thousands of Episcopalians are leaving the Episcopal Church…sodomite sex, rites for sodomites, homoerotic clergy, a homoerotic bishop and on and on it goes. Add a little transgendered sex under the rubric lesbitransgay and you have the whole degenerate mess signed, sealed and delivered.

And it is why the Global South, its bishops, clergy and their millions of believers think the Episcopal Church is beyond redemption. These sorts of writings prove it. And it is this revolting kind of stuff that passes for poetry and liturgy that is neither, but the ravings of sick minds, clothed in episcospeak and liturgical vestments delivered to us in the name of inclusivity and diversity.

It is also why the whole pansexual agenda of The Episcopal Church is sick, degenerate and lost, and why it will all one day self-destruct. God will not be mocked. We reap what we are sowing and we are reaping the whirlwind.

END