Catholic Damage


Ghosted, given up, resent louder
now, more apparent following our
mutal disavowal of this mission’s
fail, bells turn to bombs
to shatter what’s left of
this illusion’s frailty held together
only slightly by crucifixion nails
hell bent on hammering home
how hard we both fell
for what wasn’t real. Shelled
to total tell my intent,
I was you tempter, your
Lucifer, looking after you for
Lent. Unbearable light, nested beings,
unimpressed with my act, how
fast trickled the quickened stream
of seed picking up steam
spilled through the crack. Relentless
as an unsolicited sentiment sent
to grow in moments your
weakness opened, filled whole the
well, killed with tactless attacks
of a tongue’s blade what


I planted in you, babe.
Unguarded, messenger unable to explain,
how this coursing through your
place on my way to
something new extended the play
of my stay you wanted
me to outgrow, scrawled on
the walls you let down
how I dare not invade.
What a gift, then, to
be welcomed without warning, arms
and veins opened, a way
in for someone like me,
vain and vague, so doting,
so adoring, so abhorrent yet
charming. Allegèd genius eccentric, gorgeous,
generous until defamed, distinguished and
indifferent, incapable. Utterly unable, ever
since to sit still, how
I want as much now
as before to be your
warmth, your itch to scold.
To become the one for


whom you pray. Your reason
to want to be told
things could be much worse
than being held captive by
my unrepentant soul. A myth
of a man, intangible, infrangible,
eidetic mimetic, if I mimed
this meme right it might
be misperceived slightly less absurd
than I already believe my
feelings to be, hence silence.
Always performing, always going, I
strayed. Late nights and hypothesized
days made worse the abandonment
of time. Writing, writhing, hopelessness
finds in homophones an imbalance
of sorts that hurts less
than harsher words, keeps me
somehow only slowly going on,
no, going slowly somehow on
toward tomorrow with a partner
a mirror only borrowed. If
things tend to sound the


same, then this can’t be
the first rant you’ve endured.
No, others before me must’ve
blown their chances, as well.
Broken spirits offer affection and
ultimatums that can’t be returned,
demand to be mourned, need
to be believed in to
be preferred. Keep me home,
no one’s why will ever
weaken this pulse your heart
questions, only explanation’s my ill
temper and talent felt threatened,
felt seconded then voted out
when your own shouted confessions
prisons and precedents make professions
out of deafening. Catholic damage
and pagan fallings out enrage
damsels enamoured of amorous, endangered
strangers, wayward princes masquerading as
messianic saviours who turn out
only to be images of
love which exist to deceive.