Written on the Wings of a Moth in the Mouth of a Golem


Our demons lean on our crutches
as they summon us. Or at least
Darren’s were when I was kneeling
before his jeans, feeling him leak

viscous dreams between denim seams,
fingertips lingering, drips left
like tears dropped onto TV screens.
In the liminal, all taunt & tease,

failing saints & falling angels wet
with sweating brows graze my own. Each
teaches me to be as gracious
as I need to be to get big

          getting what I seek. Prays each kiss
          ingratiates my Self to him.


That without speaking my mouth says
what this church-burner tongue commits
to ritual, instead. Within
a room with no view enemy

memories free, throw me a wave
even when his heat’s interest
fades & changes riches to rags to
rages, erases histories

as he throws me away. Oh yes,
play out hard & fast this liberty
& intimacy’s illusions trashed
in a nodding glance. A knowing

          grin, as if just to get finished
          & say without saying anything


at all, “Hey, we’ve been through it, kid,
& even if we’re through with this, through
with us, we both still exist. Flings
bound together not by any

strings or chains but a secret,” & when
we kissed, living in absolutes,
never or forever, raining
diamonds. Dust of dawn coming

down dusky, rumours milling grist
all over town, your most exiled
monger of scandal pined for this
much after hours, after being

          passed over & tossed off, images
          lingering after watched, healing


from revealing wounds fingered fresh
when passed around. Touches down past
tension changing tenses as things
blend when, pen in fist, I release

& reminisce. Writing in silence
against all gods anathemas
passing for psalms, napalmed songs by
some vengeful longing written each

on the creaking wings of a moth
placed in the mouth of a golem.
A man my hand made crumble, flesh
my breath gave life again, weeping

          tears of ink laid in clay. Ruthless
          cuneiform grooves lips playing


the game play the same sing-song breath
the same sing-along way sinners
pray what they did could be changed, cleaned,
by what they said. Relics indeed

of our loss of our Selves no change
of intention, penitent jest’s
redirection, or penchant’s new
interpretation can translate

or gift truer meaning truest
after a moment vanishes
into wind which returns it crushed
to sand. Blood-drenched scorched earth marking

          a path bleeding with no way yet
          back to who we were before kings.