Saint-Maker & The Red-Neck Men

07-2

I.
we are posed

our collective ass
high saddles arched to heaven
like monochrome rainbows
where cowboys deign to ride

we are constellation

dark stars who only shine against the light
night-walkers
and gateways to other sides

we are breathless

before querent dick
who examines
this sainted congregation of the dead

a grim and proper audience
a showcase of creative difference
a groomed cadaverous spectacle
consecrated by reaper hands

II.
our sanded  faces
smooth as unfinished puppets
leave no distinction among us
except our reasons

tattooed beneath the surface
as fixed shadow
undaunted by light

we wanted to be real
and never wondered
where men turn
when there are no women to despise

we are the repetition of ending
a serial conversion of men to other things
through murderous means

III.
he folds our broken hands to pray
like an origami garden of lotus flesh
we are beauty
in the mud of our own desire
botanical men who hide ourselves
among the distortions of water

he bends our knees beneath us
to supplicate without words
for impossible things

each weave of brittle bead
laced between our fingers
a sin of freedom unforgiven
and falling apart

he opens our necks to smile
like rivering shortcuts to power
relieved the burden of sound
we are red-neck men

emptied fountains of pleasure
who stained the whited sheet
with intimate intention

IV.
we are

bound in sacred rigor
monuments of fallen men

we are

sainted sons
purged of infamy
made fearfully right
in the image of gods
we have never known
to love

we are buried
in the shallow grave of our beds
marked only by stigmata of lesser lovers
before men who will never see
the beauty of our natural form unfolded
who investigate us
to find themselves

 

 

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