Ghosts In The Sistine Chapel Poem by Alexandre Nodopaka

It is not a ceiling.
It is the underside
of the intimate cranium.
A celestial canopy,
perceived from the core
of my amygdala.

Without a doubt I am
a rococo cathedral
where thoughts intermingle
in a bordello
of orgiastic emotions and
aspirations and

winged angels,
disguised as Muses,
armed with horned
fleshy forceps
insist on being splayed,
gored, carnally crucified.

They anticipate
the expelling
not of blood but of
sequential eternity
surnamed original sin.
A final reparative expiation.