I looked at you
And the building began
A throne, a shell of perfect porcelain, a thousand twirling veils
Some of silk, some skin
I chained you to it
And how quickly it shattered
How couldn’t it?
I’m no occultist
I can’t hold another’s heart
And I’m no cultist (except to one Ocean)
I can’t hold another’s hand
But I sure as hell am a martyr
I can hold myself back from everything
Inaction, as far as things go, is pretty
Damn
Active.
Anything could happen
A little Dutch boy, An emaciated martyr, A twice-wed hunter with a bare back
A freeshooter
I like to think I know just how it all ended
He took nine steps
But it wasn’t the venom that killed him
(Thank god for that)
But the puddle of his own perfect blood
Two inches deep
Is it so pretentious?
Vain
glorious,
Even?
Well, perhaps. But don’t worry. I plan to head down the street someday and leave you be.
You know, there’s a garden for her just across the road. But I can never head there.
I tried, but I was far too
I never stopped feeling so strongly
(Loved, I’d like to say)
after all, a tool in use doesn’t rust, it just begins to
dull.
Just a little spoon, the kind with a twist.
Keeps them just enough away to have to be kept in another drawer.
Above sits a candle.
All things considered, it’s pretty shit
efforts to color it with Red #40
caused it to sputter far too quickly.
Can’t blame them for trying, though.
September
is as good an end as ever.
Especially
For a Saturday boy
He tried to be Arachne—punishment and all—but was just another
Runner
No Hippomenes, I’ll tell you that much
Still, quite lucky. No death yet.
Just injury.
I always wanted to be a beetle.
He saw their sheen and how,
when broken,
it was
so painfully
obvious
to the breaker.
Ah, but they have lives, too.
But no other armor covers the heart
And the body at once, singular escutcheon, singular crutch
So he wrapped himself in paper, wrote an image
Of a wavering, wicker man
Sometimes giant, other times a mass of shreds
Of
Yellowed Paper
And forged a shield of bright shining iron
Folded a thousand times,
Smithed with all the care that wasn’t
Nearly
As inward as the perverted fire of this
Two wicked candle
Too wicked candle
And as it turns out
Putting down a shield, pulling up a hand,
Is still the right thing to do
for them But not for me
I’m sure Jack would know, had he ever had the chance to settle
Setting something painful down
Is far easier than picking it back up
Resistance dissolved,
A paper tiger burns bright
So slowly,
So slowly
The armor is removed
The body can burn
The work is saved
So read me
Read what I’ve done,
praise what I’ve done,
love what I’ve done
But do not ever claim to love me
Before a liar, all is transparent
And so,
I use my own teeth.
It’s hard to tie a rope with hands rent like these
self-righteous! self-inflicted! self-martyr!
Stigmata
Still, it’s a two parter. The martyr never puts up their own cross.
So, lacking the press coverage necessary,
It’s just a failing suicide
Of a fool tied to a two-by-four
In a rose garden he grew
Gnashing frantically at petals and seeds
Survival instincts long-dormant active
Hands long-riven whole
The sensation of a flower blooming from within
Is easily mistakable for requited love (so I hear)
And unknowing, I felt fulfilled
Dying
with a knot of unopened seeds
Stuck
in my
Throat
In my
Heart