Listen to her crying,
Crying for worms.
Her loving dysfunctional and
Severe; her loving keeps you
Guessing and praying.
We pray on our knees like dead soldiers
Propped up by some mad dictator.
We pray like hungry children craving cereal
And a parent’s serial knowhow.
I imagine climbing into each other’s skin,
A hobo suit like Manson talked about during
One of his many rants from a desert outpost
Where young women became his slave and
Young men turned into innocent bystanders.
Now I’m a white devil
Now I’m a prisoner
Now I’m a peasant
Now I’m a surgeon
Now I’m a rolling stone
Now I’m a traveling salesman
Now I’m a painting
Now I’m a pyramid
Now I’m a poem
Now I’m a black night
Now I’m a blank page
Listen to her crying for someone to fill her with love,
Someone who does not question who she is or why
Her arms have become black wings.
October 19, 2008 1:14 PM