Roll Call of the Lesser Devils 124-128

Will there ever be an end
To the fascination
The depth and the sight
Of my love for the night
And the lights,
And the pretty girls' hair,
All of which make me happy,
Or it's supposed to.
I keep wanting but never dare.

Is there ever an end,
And if there is
Why would I want it?
Something repressed and unsettling
Crawls around underneath the skin,
Where before I was only
Just holding it in,
It has now made a home for itself,
And I like it so much
It's a sin.

I was standing by my window,
On a cold and cloudy day,
When I saw that hearse come rolling
To carry my mother away.
I said to the undertaker,
"Undertaker please drive slow
For that body you are hauling
I hate to see her go."
I followed close behind her.
I tried to hold up and be brave,
But I could not hold my sorrow,
When they laid her in her grave.

A twist of folded cloth
A tryst bundled into bed
Out of sight
In the borrowed time
Of a stolen night
Gentle revenge lent
To padded footfalls
Bite, bite away
Needy, hopeful pets
Crimson stained tongues
That lap with affection
Suspect no other infections
Prayed for training
Clawed at holds
Shunned the rooms,
And the rooming house
Did not tell of that time
Nor did I ever sell the story,
Secrecy, just as well.
And the white eyes were ringed with decay
anointed then wrung
flung away
reach not for that piqued fire
in memory burn pure and clean
purge travesty vain
and off blood wean
the changeling moans
feign rippled through
personal thunder storms
the struggle too calm
tutti frutti, yummi delicious
toro fine torso
it's only the future one blew
in a no no did we ho ho
hum, and then diffidence slunk away
in borrowed shoes
sands trapped in a bottleneck
no escape from time, ravage
the existence weaver slipped in this spot
and into his neck freakishly
buried a dull stained meat cleaver
harried unto death denial
with the grave a non merry marry
witness yon tattered minstrel
the vessel you laid on it's edge
and the flesh which ripped under the blade
and nothing you say can undo
please quietly walk away
you will find only reticence, tension
the dark tears of nightmares' vision
and the finest cuts, though not venison,
the lech erred, see
wilt petaled sea
wilt flower
bloom menaced by day
blighted, unclean
a stain spreads
time soon wanes left wanting
hunt close in the gentle
frilled bunting
and pure
must be different
be true to us sure
for a too far edited
djinn of stormy melancholic mood
form flawed and dimmed
insuring cast screams will entice
toss and then show honed
shame me
tower without humor
the mnemonic knows, daughter
only with hard boiled memory
can the past win any friends
and never any sympathy
I know nothing of love
having never been given any
and say, are you different?
find this pain to be a lie
there can be no love deeper
than this
sinking in blood
up over my thighs
what do they mean
these gory sighs?

The first and only
And all are one
Caressed his young heart
With delicate words
Murmured songs soft and lonely
Like morning dew
And the breath of their love
Was a mist that covered the world.

The tale of what I was sure
Would soon be my latest conquest
Must unwind like water
Must saturate the soil
After a long, gentle rain.
At the end of the stretched out day
My subject and I cross each other’s paths.
I have not forgotten sorrow
And yet no tears came for the brazenness
Of my haughty personal ambitions.
I wanted neither to bear her burden
Nor to lessen my own.
I merely saw the face behind her sweet voice
And thought we could share a few moments
One last time.
“How very poetic.
You are such a dear, dear boy,
But why not run along and sing songs somewhere else.
Anyone could see
Your only interest is sexuality,”
She cut back, expertly.
How could I,
With only my empty voice
Quiet the bubbling of harsh neuroses
Left in the wake of this agony,
This defeat, and not by choice.
Much later, when I had long since
Gotten over that
She came to see me.
It seemed she wanted to do
All that
After all.
“So, you’ve come
Thinking you can make me dream
Or have echoing thoughts
Only of you,
But this vision turns no water to wine,
Even though no fineries of language
Could match such a science as yours.
No, I am afraid it is far too late.”
Revenge is bitter, but sweet.
Later it struck me
That my nose was missing.
Spite had ravaged my face.
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Related written works at Angelfire, Sex Symbols, Cymbals of Silence.Repent or Die