Little messiah skirts
and picture perfect teeth.
Grins, sadness made of praying mantis hands
and sugar nostalgia gardens.
Percolating water moccasins,
feeding on your brain waves,
and thunder shoes.
Have you pickled that music
somewhere in the wasp
light?
Have you given yourself to the breeding,
breeding shrines of faith?
That demand your lava blood
and soft, mortal liver?
I walk at night sometimes.
Places to hide my crimes,
Looking for a shot of my seven year old smile,
when it was stolen.
Years ago.
Damn these pagan- smelling words.
Damn the hydrogen tears.
They are Goliaths,
and I'm a wink of dust,
and you're still selling yourself,
to faith and its labia lipped imps.
Yes,
my friends-
they are naught.
They are few,
and live far, upon the curtains of shame.
and yet we are comrades and kin.
To battle, and bread, and bed.
The world,
it is a child parasite.
Whim worm,
eating a map of life-
through my cavernous hide.
Care for some scones?
Made from lesson number one?
Or a little juice,
of the first slivers of lust?
I touch myself
to know what it is to die.
I touch the world,
with the gloves of skin,
and i touch the threads.
Each silver, warm, painful, hard, wet
thread.
Swallow it.
Spill it.
Weave it.
