ulcer-born boy fashioned in-and-out of
wet stilettos abased himself before
something red in his peripheral vision
His hands dashed on clean pianos
his feet caught in twisting coffins
his whole body sold to the lords of
Underneath-the-Tablecloth

Mistaking the table for a man
he tries to tell a poem
Merchants of dresses weep into tambourines
and a chapel of rats speaks in milk and shadows:
a guttural language in the lower register

in matching deliriums he changes his name
to a bitter liquid with no apparent family
wanting to lose himself in thirty ways or pieces
and awaken in a shudder of small death
he digs greedily into the night
and carves his name into the face of God

You feel so darkly that your head comes off
morphing subtly through god and time
sometimes his pencil is a weapon
like wet translucent images of snakes

he picked up the pencil with his right hand
And Demons Of light dragged from under the door
a murder of Light casting asters in all the wrong places
he drew something:
a place with changing waters
a house without armies
or marshlands in the upper stories

he strangled his muse in the bathroom
and laughed giddy into cracked cups
so that nobody could see that he was laughing
he became married to lucid lullabies
that pass croaking over mud-sealed faces
his legs grave with kisses
he plagiarized the sky
his face made to look dark like the throats of omnipotent roses
he shies from faceless organs
oranges and hell

a Boy with a passion for blood
that bleats from scribbled walls
and rabid doorways
The Lost Eleven walls and the blood sneaking
shrieking from his lips
ulcer-born

And Wet Stilettos Creak Inside His Brain

he crippled soft and fell on top of the floor
there was something there that night that slaughtered him
or someone else maybe it doesn't really matter
He finds no mysteries in fabric
and Caligula is dancing with the pigs

Copyright © 2007 Aliya Louise All Rights Reserved