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January 29, 2013


The grand and gruesome Gods I’ve laundered.
All the parts of me I’ve slaughtered.
To stand astride their pantheon.
Revenant, reverent and vain.
They all have my consumptive face.
I sewed them all to serve you.
Now you’re gone.
And yet they still remain.
The bright and brilliant Titan.
That I never quite became.
They haunt the sky above me.
With their fingers in my strings.
They danse around my bed at night.
The pinnacle of privation.
The omega of these things.

You told me I was beautiful.
And placed a Bible in my hand.
My God, I fucking loved you.
Now I can’t stand to see you.
Silly little God-Man.
Haven’t I got my sterile knives?
My powders and my prayers?
My arch and aching awareness.
Of all your blue-lit lives.
And the way you touch your hair?
Silly brittle Man-Child.
Terrified every morning.
By the permanence of loss.
Not just one, but many.
All borne upon one cross.


From → Poetry

One Comment
  1. Dark and excellent.

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