Rubricator & Illuminator

Let’s end this world together—
     living as we are, like we’re
     already dead—

                    Our spines chained, rubricator
                         and illuminator—slaves
                         bathed in the red

                                        When dawn’s day-saving light breaks
                                             and fate tailgates our lives’ shifts—
                                             graveyarding them


Little by little, litter
     a chore to devour but worth
     the effort if

                    One man you strip of his worst
                         thought’s manuscript, its sick leaves
                         brittle with what

                                        Wickedness runs off—sin dripped
                                             in hearts turns blood to water—
                                             ripping from us


Lukewarm parts dropped by some god
     playing doctor, his or her
     sense of humour

                    Off, unjust, and just awful—
                         rusting miracle’s golden
                         rarity to

                                        White-collared, standard bullshit—
                                             undermining with limp wrists
                                             and a faggot’s


Lisping impunity our
     artistry’s impurity—
     wonders we write

                    Of misinterpreted, and
                         marketed, as confessions
                         those who trespass

                                        Wit’s garden gate mistake for
                                             its bastard cousin, sarcasm—
                                             no telling how


Low we go to get so high
     when, describing our plight, these
     eyes weary with

                    One sight, strive so badly to
                         sew on life’s thread beads of new
                         lies we breathe when

                                        We withstand existence’s
                                             curse—turning to pain to paint
                                             words freeing us.