I enjoy swearing. I know it's nothing to be proud of, but a good curse word at just the right moment gives me a great deal of pleasure.
Robert Morgan, the Poet of the Week, knows a thing or two about swearing.
Saint Marty better get his ass moving now. He has a class to teach tonight. Son of a bitch.
by: Robert Morgan
When the most intense revivals swept
the mountains just a century ago,
participants described the shouts and barks
in unknown tongues, the jerks of those who tried
to climb the walls, the holy dance and laugh.
But strangest are reports of what was called
the holy cuss. Sometimes a man who spoke
in tongues and leapt for joy would break into
an avalanche of cursing that would stun
with brilliance and duration. Those that heard
would say the holy spirit spoke as from
a whirlwind. Words burned on the air like chains
of dynamite. The listeners felt transfigured,
and felt true contact and true presence then,
as if the shock of unfamiliar
and blasphemous profanity broke through
beyond the reach of prayer and song and halloto answer heaven's anger with its echo.