ARTFEST: A Dionysian Mass for Misbehaving Poets

    'Ner kun we strike friggled poets
    with beams ahh pure moonleight
    err write inspired verse without
    feigning the joys ahh life. 
    
    Here do I muse upon the Virgin's Wombe
    singing strippeths ta the glaeries thereof
    because inspaired hearts 
    'er worth mure thun a welle-roasted dove!

    Yeah! Whit happens beneath bedroome sheets
    may be moor significunt than whit goes on in
    katherdal halles, where bishops with marbled lips
    recite dogmas whuse meanings haf long since been eclipsed.

    Real kunsecration is reached by passionate lunatics
    whuse need fer formulaic phrises ceases
    when they chant music while a lissening ta angels
    as wine flows from every kiss
    & kommunion is achieved
    in those sacred moments when this . . .
    becomes this . . . .


   Ella shook her head, tracing the edge of the printed poem with a tight, disapproving thumb.
"This pseudo-Christian imagery is completely counterproductive," she muttered, her posture
stiffening. "Not only is it apt to offend many pious people, but it's bound to provoke feminist
sensitivities as well."

   Across the table, Shu began to clap—a slow, rhythmic tempo that echoed softly through 
the quiet room. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "The author has succeeded 
in pissing off many people," he said, resting his chin on his palm. "I rather like the way 
conventional religious imagery gets twisted here." He paused. "There's also a strong 
Dionysian energy running through this poem — it speaks of a mysticism of the flesh in the 
same way as D.H. Lawrence, Henry Miller, and Anaïs Nin. It basically says: If the body is 
where we experience ecstasy, why shouldn't it also be where we experience the sacred?"

   Juanita leaned forward, her eyes darting between the lines of text as if reading a tactical 
map. "I see it as an ongoing battle," she observed quietly, her fingers tapping against the table,
"between the author's male and female personas." She glanced at her friends, then added, "The
Virgin, the lover, the poet, the priest—they keep changing masks. The poem may be less
interested in resolving those identities than in making them collide."

   Jack tilted his head back and barked out a laugh. He leaned his elbows on the table, with 
zero pretense. "I dunno," he said through a broad, irreverent grin. "Maybe the poet is simply 
an arse hole. Haf ya considered that?" He shrugged and the room became silent.


> Note: This piece was partially generated with AI tools; human editing was then applied.

=====================================================================================
from Lit-A-Rupture: A Post Literary Construction by T Newfields

LONG SUMMARY: A deliberately blasphemous and erotically charged poem transforms the bedroom into a rival cathedral, 
provoking a debate about religious dogma, gender, poetic persona, and whether the pursuit of
embodied spirituality is profound heresy—or simply the work of an irreverent arse hole.
SHORT SUMMARY: A beautifully absurd hymn to love and pseudo-intellectual commentary on it.
KEYWORDS: sacred passion, sensualism, spiritual sexuality, ancient verse,
erotic mysticism, religious satire, sacred and profane, Dionysian spirituality, 
anti-clericalism, gender identity, poetic personas, embodied spirituality

Author: T Newfields [Nitta Hirou / Huáng Yuèwǔ] (b. 1955 - ?)
Begun: 1995 in Shizuoka, Japan ⨳ Finished: 2026 in Shizuoka, Japan
Creative Commons License: Attribution. {{CC-BY-4.0}} Granted

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