Levi' 32:30

My vicar’s the cliché of an old-age priest,

Lips stained with blood of Christ as she saunters through the village.

The tipsiest disciple, blasting Thunder Road on repeat,

With a flock following her feet, mopping up her spillages.

I saw her working once while visiting on a whim—

Research for a prior piece, but I said little, cautious of sin.

When I stood to leave, she handed me a book bound tight with denim,

A testament transcribed to twill, Genesis to Heaven.

She winked at me, then rushed ahead, closing the doors behind her,

And I, alone, flicked through the text to see what I could find.

Hymns hemmed to a short leg,

Psalms sewn into seams.

While Joseph was fond of a carpenter cut,

Mary’s were ripped at the knees.

Levi-ticus scribed, “Thou shalt not be a Wrangler,

Nor let denim lie with denim, for it is not divine,”

Yet Proverbs provocate that harsh threads stir up anger,

Contrary to the cross-stitch where Jeansus came to dye.

During my agnostic acknowledgements, a figure rose from below,

Pulling my underwear above my waist and laughing as he goes—

A sect with Satan in the drawstring, his horns adorned with zippers,

My cargos quaked as he tore apart each leg with vigor.

“What brings you here, jeanless juvenile?” the denim devil denounced.

“I’m only here to spectate,” I insisted, “not for the judgement of my trousers.”

“Too late!” His shrieking shucked my shorts. “Cuff luck!” My legs blushed blue—

Then a voice sprang out of nowhere: “I got my finger on the trigger, but I don’t know what to do.”

It was Springsteen on the organ, his eyes a stoking fire,

His fingers dancing in the dark, smoke seeping up the spire.

“Silence!” the maddened creature creased and curled up to the waist,

But Brucey pulled his handkerchief, like a matador made haste, and said:

“This here lad’s done nothing wrong,

But not abide by the rivets of your lust.

And when I look into your eyes,

There’s just devil and dust.”

And like that, Satan’s signature collection crumbled to a pew.

I wrapped a cassock round my crotch and gave a nod to Bruce.

The vicar tutted as I passed, sipping from her glass:

“Wear some jeans next time,” she said, “have a bit of class.”

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I took the bank holiday off, so here's yesterday's blog post. It's Easter themed because it steals all the fun parts of religion and discards all the boring, homophobic, heterocentric stuff. I know this is weird, okay, but I'm working on the next travel blog post so stay tuned.