Monday, March 14, 2016


She slices directly into my soul
The turpentine fumes could have killed us and I wouldn’t have cared
Dying next to her would have been a fucking privilege I swear to God

Her voice sings out for the genocide of the Native Americans
Crazy Horse-spirits and Vincent-ghosts swirl around her sleeping fairy body
You want divinity well then give her a chance and she will deliver tenfold

Everything comes down to the imprecise cuts of a blunt pair of dressmaking shears
That’s life for you saved up for retirement then get cancer and die alone and miserable
Her paint strokes are roars of unbridled otherness and her empathy beats your apathy every single time

She taught me that the teachers are the children not the adults in the windowless room
She brought me to a jumping off place I best get used to before vertigo sets in
She showed me her birthday suit and I showed her my Daisy Red Ryder BB Gun

Don’t forget to stop pretending when you’re finally escorted through the Pearly Gates
Don’t forget to forgive yourself once the priest has finished tampering with your childproof cap
Don’t forget to start living before it’s too late and the stores have all closed and the trains have all stopped running and hitchhiking to the Temple Mount is no longer a viable alternative

Charles Cicirella

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