Without a Sin, Without a Victim

I went in curiosity for a day.
     I stayed for a week,
     saying to my Self, Is there anything else
     made to make men feel
     this way?
Born free, yet everywhere in chains,
     why is it any
     wonder we often stray not far from ourselves,
     but tend to keep each
     to our primal path, seeking only to have
     romance without sleep?

Love is the bastard child of Beauty and War,
     tomorrow’s darling
     made out to be yesterday’s whore, painting our
     fictions bold crimson
     when virgin blanks fire us more hopeful glances,
     shuttering Hope’s door.
     And all your black snow niggers pale-fingered faith,
     mistaking rope for
     rape, making noble lax intentions taxed their
     take of victory.

So I went in curiosity, all-known,
     perverting conscience,
     playing easy-to-get as I rose, dethroned
     my moral monarch,
     and took to an unlit, backward-creeping street,
     treating my darkest
     continent of concept to realization,
     taking to flight my
     wilderness clearing of unenlightened dreams,
     laughing while weeping.

Flesh sold without sin, without a victim,
     is heaven’s prison,
     taking in from unspoken psalms broken arms—
     swords split under foot—
     when misunderstood desire puts words and those
     loudest hard-core verbs
     into mouths; unwashed cocks unholy mothers
     nurture, self-assured
     and certain every one of her customers
     will return for more.