I'm not looking for God, only for myself, and that is far more complicated. God has a great deal written about Him; nothing has been written about me.
A woman who slaves for a man does not have a marriage; she has a master.
Take two people. Slice lengthways. Boil with the lid on. Add a marriage, a past, another woman. Sugar to taste. Pass through a chance meeting. Lubricate sparingly. Serve on a bed of – or is it in a bed of –? Use fresh and top with raw emotion.
I have shouted to God and the Virgin, but they have not shouted back and I'm not interested in the still small voice. Surely a god can meet passion with passion?
She was a Roman Cardinal, chaste, but for the perfect choirboy.
Under the night rug, the star rug, moon as lantern, man in the moon watching over us, dog star at his heels, we lay.