The Cyrenaian Hedonic church

Come to my alter.
Not with heads bowed,
but with mouths open and tongues out.
Not with folded hands,
but with wrists bared, ready for rope.

Kneel.
Open.
Accept what is offered.

This.
Eat it.
It is my body.

Take this.
Now drink.
This is my blood.
Swallow.

You are my chalice, and I will fill you.

The sacrament is not bread and wine but sweat and ache, the salt of tongues, the bitter musk of surrender.

The righteous preach denial, but I say this:

Every kiss is a liturgy.
Every bite is a psalm.
Every moan is a prayer answered.

Here is the host:

Flesh trembling, thigh spread, ass upraised.

Here is the cup:

Lips parting, throat hungry, cunt wet with faith.

Taste and know the gospel is written on tongues.

Do this in remembrance of me.

Do it again until memory burns away and only hunger remains.

Communion is not a quiet meal.
It is a feast where we devour our gods.
A feast that requires volume.

Screams.
Aches.
Moans.
Whip-cracks.

Hymns of dungeon echos.

It is the holy exchange of spit and seed, and bruise as blessing.

So, come, beloved.

Take.
Eat.
Drink.
Kneel.
Rise.
Shudder.

Y(our) body is broken.
Y(our) blood is spilled.
Y(our) ovenant is written.

We must swallow it.

And still, we hunger.
And still, we thirst.
And still, we worship.
And still, we rise to take again.

Amen