Soft Core (Heavy Breather, Unknown Caller)

                         i. Biblical,

Imagine, a god who doesn’t
want me on my knees,
but for me to believe
he believes in me, tenebrous
enigmas where thunder goes when
it dies, writing as a
labour of sound, as writing
is the best therapy, and
every gay writer is possessed,
led, by his burning desire
to confess, to justify being

himself, to exorcize the demon
that is what others mistake
sex to be, some demon
needing to be repressed, travellers
of the afterlife, arsenal of
knives, to mark the passage
of the hours through the
night, just had my opium
den painted China White (Benjamin
Moore, OC-141, LRV 76.43, AKA
OC-19, 961, PM-20) when, like

                         ii. Mythological,

Echo, my body slowly fades
away and leaves nothing but
a voice, clandestiny, contempt for
the contemporary, so, it’s not
that you’re not into men,
it’s just that you’re not
into me, then, I am
a new superstition, the apparition
of a legend whose beginning
is this meaningless crime’s end,
perhaps the last labour of

Herakles was written-out of his
myth, the challenge of telling
another man his was the
life for whom he lived,
in the pantheon of my
Muses, your doubt closed the
very road that once opened
out in front of you,
throat of the world choked
by second thoughts when your
first one was what it

                         iii. or Historical?

should have been, enough, to
convince you then that you
must trust your Self, to
guide you as any psychopompous
extension of one’s underworlded heart
does, through its wound to
renewal, to surface new as
we would have been had
you trusted him, my soul’s
only loneliest but most content
companion, Hermes, my best friend.