The Pious Debauchee
4 sensual poems
§I
So, there he lies at the last,
A man undone by his own repast.
The wine-stained lips, the revelry's cost,
A soul too vast, and a life too lost.
The deathbed convert,
A parody of grace,
Seeking absolution in this hollow space.
The pious debauchee,
What a sight to see—
A sinner's hymn sung in mockery.
Could not dance half a measure, could I?
Feet too drunk on pride to try.
The fiddler played, the room would spin,
And still, I leapt to drown the din.
Give me wine; I'd drain the dregs,
And toss the empty bottle at the world.
Its shattering cry, a chorus for the damned,
Each shard a fragment of the man I am.
Show me our Lord Jesus in agony,
And I mount the cross,
Stealing his nails for my own palms.
Martyrdom? No—just another game,
Another conquest for my name.
I drank from the chalice of excess,
A devout apostle of the flesh.
No prayer could pierce my heart,
No sermon could tear my soul apart.
There I go, shuffling from the world,
My dribble fresh upon a Bible,
The ink smudged by my trembling breath.
Each psalm a mockery, each verse a jest.
I look upon a pinhead,
And I see angels dancing.
Their laughter a cruel melody,
Mocking the futility of my theology.
Well? Do you like me now?
Do you like me now?
Do you like me now?
Do you like me... now?
The words echo in the chamber of my mind,
A desperate plea to be defined.
By love, by hate, by scorn, by grace,
By anything but this vacant space.
I lived as though the stars were mine,
Each pleasure taken, each boundary defied.
But the feast is over, the table bare,
And I am left with empty air.
Do you see me as I am,
This fractured soul, this hollow man?
Do you see the fool who mocked the cross,
And turned his blessings into loss?
I wore my sins like a crown of thorns,
A king of nothing, battered and torn.
Now stripped of all, I am laid bare,
My naked soul gasping for air.
Do you like me now?
In this final hour, as the curtain falls,
As the void swallows these crumbling walls.
Do you like me now?
I am the jest, the tale they’ll tell,
The man who danced too close to hell.
Yet even here, at the precipice,
I wonder if I’d do it all again for one last kiss.
The wine, the laughter, the burning thrill,
The agony that sharpens the kill.
What is redemption to a man like me,
But another flavor of debauchery?
So, let the angels dance,
Let the devils cheer.
This is my truth, raw and clear.
I sought the world and lost my way,
But I lived—oh, I lived each day.
And as I shuffle from the world,
My dribble fresh upon a Bible,
I laugh at the irony of it all,
A sinner who dared to stand tall.
Do you like me now?
As I fade from view,
A memory that cuts,
A flame that slew.
Do you like me now?
Do you like me now?
Do you like me... now?
§II
So, there he lies at the last,
The man who wore his sins like gilded robes,
The deathbed convert, clutching prayers
As if their weight could anchor him to grace.
The pious debauchee, a paradox
Of flesh and spirit, trembling at the brink.
Could not dance half a measure, could I?
The music called, but I was deaf with pride,
My steps unsteady, stuttering in time.
Life’s rhythm mocked me—still, I laughed aloud,
A chorus of my own, raw and profane.
Give me wine, I'd drain the dregs,
And toss the empty bottle at the world.
Its shattering echoed through the night,
A jagged hymn for all who dared to feel.
The wine burned sweet, then bitter, then as ash,
Yet still I drank, and drank again, and drank.
Show me our Lord Jesus in agony,
And I mount the cross,
Stealing his nails for my own palms.
Not for redemption, but for the sting—
The proof of life, the jagged mark of breath.
There I go, shuffling from the world,
My dribble fresh upon a Bible,
Its ink now smeared by trembling lips,
Each word a fogged reflection of my truth.
I look upon a pinhead and I see angels dancing,
Not in mockery, but in defiance of despair.
Their wings beat soft against the cruel air,
A fleeting beauty, distant, barely seen.
Well? Do you like me now?
Do you like me now?
Do you like me now?
Do you like me… now?
The echo lingers, cold against the dark,
A question hurled at silence and the void.
Who am I, this shattered remnant here,
This husk of fire, this ash of flesh and thought?
I sought the world, and held it in my palm,
Each pleasure plucked like fruit, its juices sweet.
Yet sweetness fades, and leaves a bitter rind,
The hand that grasped now hollow, trembling, worn.
Could not dance half a measure, could I?
The waltz of life, the solemn, joyous steps—
I missed them all, and stumbled in my haste
To reach the edge, to peer into the flame.
Do you like me now? This battered soul,
This patchwork quilt of passion, guilt, and pride?
Do you see the man, or just the shadow cast?
Do you hear my voice, or just the echo left?
I drank the wine, I kissed the lips of gods,
I walked with demons, laughed into the abyss.
I felt the stars dissolve beneath my touch,
And craved the weight of heaven in my grasp.
Show me our Lord Jesus in agony,
And I would kneel—
Not in prayer, but to mock the pain,
To feel it burn against my skin,
To know the taste of suffering divine.
There I go, shuffling from the world,
A body spent, a heart unraveled slow.
I leave no monument but shattered glass,
No epitaph but whispers in the wind.
Do you like me now? The raw, unvarnished me,
The one who dared to laugh while others knelt,
The one who dared to kneel while others rose,
The one who broke himself to know the truth.
Do you like me now? This fleeting wisp,
This ember fading, swallowed by the dark.
I do not ask for pity or for love—
Just recognition of the fire burned.
I lived, and though the living left me torn,
I would not trade a moment for the calm.
The storm was mine, the chaos was my home,
And in its eye, I found my fleeting peace.
Do you like me now? This human clay,
This fragile vessel filled with fleeting light.
Do you see the cracks, the jagged lines of pain,
And call them beautiful, or just a mess?
Could not dance half a measure, could I?
But still I moved, I stumbled through the steps,
Each one a mark of something fierce, alive.
So, there he lies at the last,
The man who dared to love the fleeting night.
The deathbed convert,
The pious debauchee.
And still, the question lingers in the air—
Do you like me now?
§III
Lo! There he lies, at length subdued,
By revel’s wages harshly rued.
A life too vast, too boldly spent,
Its pleasures gone, its vigour spent.
The deathbed convert mocks the skies,
With hollow prayers and feigned sighs.
The pious debauchee—what jape is this?
A saint in jest, a sinner’s bliss.
Could I but tread a measured dance?
Yet drunk with pride, I missed the chance.
The fiddler called; I stumbled blind,
My leaps the madness of the mind.
Bring forth the wine! I'll drain its lees,
And hurl the bottle o'er the seas.
Its shatter sounds my soul’s refrain,
A hymn of lust, a song of pain.
Show me Christ crowned in agony,
And I’ll ascend His cross with glee.
His nails shall pierce my palms in jest,
A martyr’s pangs worn on my breast.
No gospel’s voice could move my heart;
Its strains could not my pride dispart.
I supped from pleasure’s golden cup,
Till bitter dregs were all drunk up.
Now see me shuffle toward the grave,
A wretch no sermon’s hand could save.
My lips defile the holy writ,
Its lines blurred by my spittle’s spit.
Behold a pin! Upon its head,
A thousand angels lightly tread.
They mock my creed; their airy mirth
Confounds my faith and shames my birth.
Well? Do ye like me now, I ask?
Does this soul please? Unveil the mask!
The echo scorns; it mocks my cries,
A voice unanswered by the skies.
I lived as though the stars were mine,
Each pleasure plucked, each law declined.
Yet pleasures fade; their sweetness gone,
The hand that grasped lies trembling, wan.
Am I the fool who mocked the cross,
And turned salvation to his loss?
I wore my sins as kings wear gold,
Yet all is dust when tales are told.
Well? Do ye like me, now unmade?
My pride laid bare, my beauty frayed.
The curtain falls; the void appears,
The jest of life dissolves in tears.
Still would I kiss forbidden lips,
Still drain the bowl with wanton sips.
For what is grace to such as I,
But yet another jest to try?
Then let the devils howl in mirth,
And angels mock my fall to earth.
My truth is plain, my heart laid bare,
I sought, I burned, I did not spare.
So, as I shuffle from this world,
My spittle fresh, the Bible furled,
I laugh, defiant to the end—
The sinner’s pride, the grave’s pretend.
§IV
Behold him stretched upon the bier,
The man whose sins were worn with cheer.
The deathbed convert, pale with dread,
Clings tight to prayers, their sweetness fled.
The pious debauchee, a jest of fate,
Twixt fleshly fire and spirit’s weight.
Could I e’er dance? The measure flew,
While pride and folly filled my view.
The music called; I heard it not,
Blind to life’s rhythm, wisdom forgot.
Yet still I laughed, profane, unbowed,
My voice a thunder ‘mid the crowd.
Bring me wine! Its dregs I’ll drain,
And hurl the bottle o’er the plain.
Its shards shall sing a jagged song,
A hymn to all who suffered long.
Show me Christ crowned with thorny flame,
And I shall mount His cross the same.
The nails I’d steal for mine own hands,
Proof of life’s harsh, unyielding bands.
There goes my form, a tottering shade,
A Bible smudged by lips decayed.
The ink runs thin beneath my breath,
Its psalms but echoes cast by death.
Upon a pin’s frail, shining head,
I see light-footed angels tread.
Their dance defies both scorn and care,
A fleeting grace dissolving air.
Say then—do ye like me now?
This hollow shell, this shattered vow?
Does this raw man delight thine eye,
Or doth he leave thee cold and dry?
I sought the world, its pleasures deep,
Each boundary torn, no law to keep.
But sweetness fades, and ashes stay;
The feast is done, the guests away.
Am I the fool, the jest of fate,
Who mocked salvation at the gate?
A crown of thorns adorned my brow,
A king of ruin; do ye like me now?
Still would I dance, though steps are missed,
Still kiss the stars, though voids persist.
For chaos, storm, and fleeting light
Are all I crave within the night.
Lo! I shuffle toward the grave,
A sinner none could hope to save.
The storm was mine, the calm denied,
Yet in that tempest did I bide.
Let devils cheer and angels jeer,
This is my truth, raw and clear.
The waltz of life, though poorly done,
Was danced with fire beneath the sun.
Now say—do ye like me, fading slow,
A fleeting flame, a final show?
My jest is spent, my soul laid bare,
The rest is silence, cold despair.
And yet—I lived, I lived with pride,
Each scar a mark of all I tried.
So judge me now, my sins in view,
And tell me then—do ye like me too?