Post-irony priests

Don't hold me close to your beaming, bosomed
embrace, sweet-smelling and syrupy,
like Mother's hold, paper-clipped for some

reason like memos, each more nit-picky
than the last, never letting go. At night:
dreams of Ginsberg the pederast, acid hasids

tearing that NAMBLA chomo from my sight.
When will I ever live him down?
Limb after limb, tossed up high, thrown aside,

landing on Moloch's pyre without a sound
except 'Beware of Rockland!' I'm not with you.
Irony-poisoned priests slink around town,

their ever-watchful eyes on those few
whose sole pursuit it is to rape the earth
and pillage ancestral blood hitherto.

Post-irony priests ignore the gyre's girth,
the ghostly calls for spirits to rebirth.

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