In the grey and smoky fog of the dark and rainy street
Where youthful souls of corpses meet
A kindred spirit, so they don’t feel so alone,
A wild-eyed misfit prophet watches them run
Occasionally glancing at some banality on his smartphone
No one knew he was there
Despite, or perhaps because of, the electric horror of what remained of his hair
He didn’t want their friendship
He told himself, as his heart sank like a scuttled ship
Into a dank abyss
Of diaphanous purposelessness
All the dreams had already been had
But none of them came true
His cynicism would not survive the irony that the dream that wasn’t bad
He would have while awake, while wondering what to do
He knew how he would be crucified
Ever since the dust-covered and war-torn months of 2005
When his colleague trampled his nation’s honors
By the mouth of the enemy fellatiated
Our world-worn hero’s face was too ugly to be next to hers
So their answer was that he be castigated
Freedom
The dream one achieves when they escape their life’s custom
Until they scroll through their rolodex to see that they’re lonesome
Ennui
A curse one breaks with serendipity
And then she was there
The angel he longed to see
Her sinews wrapped in delicious sweet milk
Her shoulders glazed by a honey cascade of hair
What would she make of his ilk
What does she see in me
She didn’t reject his curious stare
If she were ugly, no one would care
Their murderous gaze wasn’t even skin deep
While he prayed the Lord her soul to keep
With their pitchforks and cocktails of turpentine
The infernal masses would no longer contain their attacks
In their campaign against our friendly neighborhood Frankenstein
In order to protect their normal from facts
A baby with harp and angel’s wings
Painted on vaulted ceilings among other things
In fever dreams above his head
He clutched the cold sheets beside him in bed
The mysterious writers called it a boat
In that confusing old book they wrote
Then they called it a gold-plated box
In those tales not too different from Goldilocks
What is this thing that the Philistines stole
It’s really just a human soul
It contains the law of God and lawgiver’s staff
But Leviathan has successfully split it in half
The ticking of seconds
The conformity of chromosomes
Endless discussions for psychic brigands
Covering their heads in tinfoil domes
For better or worse, the ark has been opened
And no one knows how this journey will end
How dare he make a friend
A happy finale makes the masses shudder
But in her hands is the rudder
There is no other
They don’t get to tell me who I enjoy
Or whether it’s a girl or boy
Or quibble about too old or young
My words and kisses come from MY tongue