Religion in the corner of my eye. A peeping tom and a hole in the sky. The last stall on the left as our makeshift confession booth. . Your parents will never know, stalked by child's nightmare.
Foolish young visionary your proximity. To the corrupt epicenter razes your walls. Of morality walls of protection. Or of concealment temptation of raw power.
I dream sometimes of a brother in red. The first unborn, perhaps the son of God aborted. And tossed and a garbage bag, life is black comedy. Slapstick and vulgarity, unworthy of the name.
Dyed red hair, a forest green dress. And a pair of kitchen knives. It was the last time I ever saw a rose.
Androgynous we are. Ancient statues deformed in desert winds. Dead children play. In Mapplethorpe Grey. . Midnight orgies at the school for the blind.
Long sleeved in the summer. Again in our gray shirts. Leaning against cinderblock walls. We even hide from the other prey. . But as soon as the lioness comes.
Certain things fascinate me. First I went blind and then the sun went out. The way you hold a match so steady. How heaven is collapsing under so much joy.
To enter your thoughts for just a few seconds. As your pick their faith from your teeth. The obscene dance of your memories. . What you touched and what you tore irreparably.
While we used long fingernails to carve epitaphs into the floor. You were scratching freedom from concrete. Living in a world of gamblers and murder victims.