The Vatican’s Protégés

And pray with me as I become a statue.

As you rob me of everything that I am.

As your cold body trespasses mine in

Blasphemous authority. I wish you’d keep

Your mouth shut. The rosary tongue that

Twists and usurps all words in rotten faith.

I will refuse all lessons taught by you.


It is my prerogative to disappear within my body.

To make it out alive, to defy your actions against it.

I wonder how you can quote holy passages without

Stuttering. What do you think will await you on the

Other side? You have blood on your sex. Who were you

Serving when you forced yourself upon me? My

Convictions never hurt anybody.


The weight of your sinful body

Cracks open the marbled grounds

And no amount of incense could smoke out

Your light-hearted guilt.

The trail of blood travels to the altar and back.

It bears its fruits, children and women alike.



And you collect the money and take a seat on the

Wrong side of the confessional box.

I will see you wander through the pits

And depths of hell and I’ll prey upon your defeated soul.

Children who distrust the hands and embrace of adults.

Women who are at the mercy of desperate men’s sexualities.

I’ll throw the book in your face and lift up photographs

Of all the lives that you have destroyed with the bestiality of your sex.


“Gitana amb mantó vermell” by Ramon Casas i Carbó (1866-1932)

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