A Sonnet For Benedict

Let us all gather at a new Cafe Procope,
Philosophers and libertines, to roast the pope
In postures modern Aretinos and Raimondos might devise
Were Romano's positions not locked from profane eyes

In the archives of the Vatican for cardinals to teach
Their choirboy Legion secret pleasures they might reach,
Hand jerking on their cock, tongue working on an ass,
Cleaning the sin of shit and spunk, these secrets passed

Down through the centuries from popes to priests,
From cardinals to bishops, in the groping hands, the sheets
Soiled with the blood of lambs, slick trickling down the thighs
Of boys so soft... so sensual... so innocent. Ratzinger sighs.

He thinks of sweet fucks with his shorts down in the grass and dirt,
A boy of fourteen, buttons open, smooth skin under his brown shirt.