sweating like a whore in church

She seamlessly          
unites selfishness          
with courtesy        
         
forcing fallen love        
to get raptured          
into the epiphany        
of sportfucking        
gone sacred.        
         
She comes hard        
and fast        
         
knowing which lyrics        
the length and width          
of a lingam        
must sing    
in order          
to crescendo the echo          
of her hallowed hall.        
         
She conducts the choir        
with rigid discipline        
until the vaults of her diaphragm;       
fluted in more glory          
than Gothic cathedrals,        
are exorcised
in the pandemonium  
of relaxing every muscle    
from sphincter to larynx.   

Hooting in the house of opera.        
         
The myriad of angels observing        
blush as she whispers        
         
and          
         
by the time she speaks sentence        
Armageddon is plucked          
in increasingly ecstatic increments        
like the Ben Wa beads        
that serenade the throne of god.