Entering the Sistine Chapel

I sing, “I am the Antichrist”

and the usher says, “Get out”

so I let my heels drag

on holy floorboards while rolling

joints with Bible paper

 

and there is no better paper.

Actually, wet wipes on a chapped hole

is better paper. I was holy rolling

my first time using a bidet, Jesus Christ

that’s cold, but now I understand drag

shows and the plot of Get Out

 

and from the closet I come out

with legs behind head and wax paper

where crouching tiger meets hidden dragon.

Father exorcises me that Sunday chapel

but excommunicado is a gift for the son.

No more speaking in tongues for roles

 

I wasn’t typecast for, I rock ‘n’ roll

the boat we arrive on, swing ‘til I’m out

of metaphors. Truth is I was christened

to be the golden child and on paper

I was, top ACT score, went to chapel

on Christmas and nothing more, drags

 

on joints so he forgets about trying drag.

Hopefully someone accepts my belly rolls

and sings like the goddess Chappell Roan,

“I don’t care that you’re a stoner,” but out

there, standing in the rain, I am a paper

tiger. Matthew the Taxman audits Christ

 

because miracles aren’t deductible, God

knows. The young of the flock dragged

away will soon put pen to paper

and imagine some rolling

hills of green. And out

on the horizon, a chapel.

 

We put down the paper when Jesus Christ

sings in said chapel. Dress train dragging

down aisle, out rolls any last doubts of who I am.