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,
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,
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
and certain every one of her customers
will return for more.