Michael Bolerjack Majesties, Cy Pres Doctrine Volume 3 Peter the Roman Chapter Three

There is, In monasteries, in nunneries, for get thee to, as in chanceries, even more in archdioceses, In grand masteries, in orderings of fabled dionysians, In hierarchies, in other words, their own undoing, which is not moral but mystical, For the world and the churches have long been winking at the wake of atrocities committed to the catholic cause, Bad morals not being the objection, the rock on which they founder, Rather, The mystical strictures of the Teresina, A mystique and mystification, Shattering the Petrine petrifications,

Their blessings turn to stone, Within the adherencies, And there is, respite to the plot, So that, despite the eternal city, And in the amazement of the labyrinthines, Which they love all too well, so as to lock with keys the faithful, and call them mysteries, The truth still was in plain view, Purloined, yet un-hidden, Because of the word, the text, the sign, in which subsisted, In which was still, until set free, In that, By the late principle that every other is wholly other, in imprecations implicated,

There is nothing but References, By which no deference any more to Rome and the fascist basis, That would bind, So, Set out from the binderies, yet still as can be read, she and I, To come, The problem of messianicities places squarely the Faustic vision as the plane of sane is, I cite I, And who is not prone to such repetition, To their drives, Yet in messianism incomplete, and perhaps though revealed yet incompleatable, at least as yet

so unfinished, a fragmented faith, then to come, still in force, As heirs to the promise we hold, and produce performatives, The cypress doctrine in ciphers and Aphrodites not to be out-done, Still figured in Artemis, the virgin, the warrior, the chaste, Dim emblem of my queen, Mary, for whom I am writing in everything I write, for whom I, if there is anything good to come, May hope, more than a help, more than an intercessor, O armor and my boast, Somehow she is mother to all, the innocent and the not-so,

For her son came to call sinners, And she called and calls me, Righting my wrongs, Even in that I hope in my passion for Eris, Who, we see, desires progenies, to play in the house of the damsels in demise, So, Being sent apostle of the apocalypse, I found this tressed and naked girl in the midst of the mire, and she in celebrations wake, undistressed, quietly enjoying the show fall, Now, I could quite wish, Fulfillment mine arrives, She, Flowerings of the absence still to any reason to,

That in realities we may embrace, so showering me graciously to behold, in a king swann fee, she O debts me, for varieties sake, as verifications, As the premise, Of a logic undescribed, So pictures of her, in her images more knowledge, yet it is by her four limbs I hold her bare, to transubstantiate her, give her form, to incarnates, Of carnalities, sheerings to the, And so bright bliss, To the forgiveness, To the promise of the same, To the war and all, To pastries and to the consummation of, That in service to be, so expires, silencers of, as in the fragmentations resigned, scriptures, we are heirs too