Our Father (or Mother?)

Oh, 
Siggy, 
You withered, wintered wizard,
hallowed be Thy name.

What a mess have you blessed,
amidst these armies of protean actors,
of ours, of theirs, of Thy kingdom,
dissolving in slow-motion drama,
embodying then again, 
whispering lucid lines of such loud heaviness and
trading roles in tangled threads of time.

Look after mine, as he's flying above
the textured emotions of this 
oh, near ease realm.
Make him forget the spring of my string,
and give him the righteous erection,
to pierce the luscious vein, as many times,
as those pinkish horny butterflies flap,
around the stiff stamens, waiting.
Oh, deep is there, 
where Thou let him bear
the double penance 
for a too daring stare.

Instead, pull him out of this 
viscid uncertainty 
and give him the role 
of my super-self.

Amen.