Evangelica

Midnight smokescreen fills vapid ballrooms.
I met her sitting,
Cradling her chest like a paralyzed pigeon
I offered her a cigarette, produced it
Like a bouquet of fingers praising the night,
Smiles were involuntary.

Cordial quickstep on top of our nervous systems,
She spoke and
Soft insects’ pincers were produced;
Quizzing me on my many evil whims,
Softening my tarpit trap into a swooning mire.
I listened with such viscous intent.

“Yeah, and that, too”,
A bullhorn produced from the protester
Of her breasts,
And I couldn’t help myself but ponder
So many great tragedies that I found myself
Devoted to.

I want to climb into that maternity noose
And rock my lungs from it like a telephone wire,
Expelling lovesongs I didn’t write,
Thoughts I can’t dizzy up,
And a puffed chest of
Drunken testosterone chants.
I will never be my father, I’m too good at being
My own new brand of awful.

She gets up.

My favorite senses engorge upon such remnants
Gluttony shivers like a salted sickle.
Act 3, the man-made, worn, ugly, hedonistic
Karmic
Pig

That I am

Burns and revels. Engulfs, eats, licks.
Pathetic.

She returns.

Is this for you or me?
I take every detail like a entitled fuck-you to
Chivalry, a soirée on feel-good gluttony, a
Challenge to my sense of self-containing beauty,
A hate letter to the monogrammed chimes,
Seditionists,
Leftovers,
The self-made cats,
The fucking dyed appetites, the suicide cravings,
The suckle-shaped martini under my fingers.
Wait, wasn’t this about you?

Oh God
You are me and I am I
You’re what I don’t have the challenge to be
Kiss cult bravery
Intertwined with kaleidoscopic sex organs
How engorged.

Pretty, little, frail, disconnected words.