My heart beats for the Angel with glowing emerald eyes. She is the reason I stay alive.
It’s the end of an era for me. Happy New Year! Happy New Decade!
An oyster for every cunt
who wooed me with purrs;
an abyss for every dick
who poked at my flaws;
a puppet for the princess
who strayed among mutts;
a puppy for the bitches
who marked me with shit;
a slave for every god
who drowned me in dreams.
All things for all people
left nothing for me.
I saw a girl I met in church–
I knew her many months before.
I thought she looked like Megan Fox–
I almost fell in love with her.
Her face matched Megan’s perfectly–
except her eyes bulged a bit more,
the braces barely held her teeth,
her nose bent with the sharpest curves.
Her body, however, had none–
the waif wore baggy pants and shirts
to hide the threads that dangled from
her wafer torso. Only her
unwashed and pasty platypus
feet gave her gravity. And thoughts
she shared would never compensate.–
their texture’s as stringy as hers.
Nevertheless, her silhouette–
blurred, distant–resembled the girl
I dreamt of fucking every night,
and so I started dating her.
My heart once beat erratic rhythms, bleats
against the white-washed walls–social attire.
One night it broke apart–the sheep replaced
it with a clock they set to snooze and snooze
without a beep, and played their games without
me. Sprockets rusted into dust, rain short-
ed every wire. In only four years,
the contraption expired, so I replaced
it with a chest that holds fermented dreams
and memories. I decorate them with
some glitter stolen from the muses I
listen to religiously, then perform
the plays–they validate my days inside
this cave. I polish edges not to poke
and sand the faces of emotions they
invoke. If friends inquire my condition,
I’ll answer with scraps cut into portraits;
if they offer my name in petitions,
I’ll stretch their prayers by flaunting scars I bear;
if they ask favors from me, I’ll promise
them lies before I lock the door on them.
Behold! My reincarnation–reversion!
I wish I never met you for you raised
my hope beyond gravity’s grasp, light years
beyond what little reason I embraced.
No angel can shift my eyes from heights
not even God can reach and Babel can–
not scrape the bottoms of you feet. I’d build
an ark to ride the floods you kindle with
your emerald fonts to Paradise shores, but
another has already claimed Eden.
Can I survive when forced to settle for
less than you, dwelling depths fathoms beneath
you? Guppies won’t suffice–already spoiled
by manna–can’t stomach the rotten meat
the other women flaunt. Adorn a dog
in jaded jewels and ivory paint; she’d be
no worse than every other bitch who swarms
the churches, bars, and alleys. Dreams of you
taste better than the gruel lapped from those whores;
they’ll never whet my appetite as you
can even distances–decades–apart.
Why then awake? The Sun vanished, the air
dissolved, and this red planet’s life is miles
beneath craters buried in permafrost.
I went to church again but only to
assure my friends depravity had not
corrupted me, despair had not destroyed
me–rumors will proliferate when gone
for weeks–but then I figured to invest
my life in friends who considered it gold,
not gossip, so I harvested my roots,
I salt the soil with rumors suggesting
addictions to sodomy so the seeds
I treasured once won’t flourish and entangle
me in withdrawals on nights nostalgia strikes;
I left behind lies and embraced new lives.
When I called you a stupid blonde,
I meant no connection between
the sunshine seasoned crown you don
and the gray pebbles held beneath
those ivory curtains that may trick
the younger boys you’re royalty,
but never me. If you shaved it,
exposed your head for them to see,
the lust would break and they would run.
Left powerless without your spell,
no longer blonde, you’re just as dumb
without your pelt, your only wealth.
Beloved friends have crowns as gold,
but their diadems mere ornaments
to tempered treasures they all boast
inside their mouths, their heads, their chests.
Their halos make their faces glow,
the Sun and stars envy their shine,
but yours accents the zits, the moles,
the texture of your plastic hide.
No, you aren’t dumb because of hair.
If you were, you’d have hope in dye.
Instead, your only hope is clear:
a noose or a bottle of lye.
