Of Virgins and Grapes

i was a virgin, in another life.

now i am a grape.

succulent, juicy, enticing.

seventy-two of us are waiting for

each pious son of God who fights God's war.

no one really knows

what God whispered in the ears of

God's favorite sons, a millennium (possibly)

and a half (maybe) ago, 

about wars or virgins or grapes.

but they fight anyway.

it goes without saying, i have no say,

in any part of the story, yea or nay,

whatsoever.

so, no matter what i am - a virgin

or a grape - i will be bitten, crushed

between teeth, (all sixteen pairs), and tongues,

sucked dry and spat out into the garbage bin.

and that, my friends, is a Godawful truth.

"oh! suck it!" i tell myself.

because none of it means anything.

my skin, ripped off. 

(nada)

my guts and womb, trampled underfoot, pulverized. 

(zilch)

my eyes, ears, nose, and mouth, clawed into ribbons. 

(fuck, no!)

my soft, swelling breasts, sliced off;

their pointed peaks, mauled, crushed to a pulp. 

(who gives a shit?)

my voice box, shredded. 

(Boooyaaaahh!!)

my body fluids, forced out in gushing streams. 

(yipppeeee!!)

all in the name of God and Holy Wars.

man has a whole bag of tricks, the best of the lot is turning

my blood into alcohol and back 

(ohhhh!! yeah!)

all i have is the chutzpah to write a poem about it!

in heaven, even houris, i think, feel pain.