Murdered, sainted, left against the wall in a New England basement. Propped up with a plastic statue from a hockey tournament. In the fluorescence, the skin shines and look like marble. The whored men and women lurk in the pews on the North Side and ask Jesus for something. The cursed and damned and helled.
Instead, the steeded spit and watch their own blood sell itself out on a weekend on the coast. The children cheat themselves when they watch their mother in heat with street men.
The insects pretend to eat one another. But the six legged witted aren’t up to speed. Their own back and forth dependency swallowed. Alas, cursed. Try suicide later, it says on the board across the first floor of hell. Or, perhaps, it is too late—she is too late: the un-logged waterhole is fucking mad. These rabid and ragged drunks. Try suicide later and fuck off. Fucking god damn gazelles.
The brother and sister melting pot on the far side of paradise: nobody is looking. And it is only the two of us. Too fucking bad we have the same roots. Ah—damned.
The sweared—cursed and looking for bread—find a dead man with needles in his eyes. The holed whisper: thank Jesus. He seems unseemed, though, and the mother knits. A simple and pathetic little step toward salvation.
And in Hell, we breed. We breed, at last, we breed. In this house, we have eyes that seek the accused. We are the fringe of feared—of the murdered—of the murderer—of the murder. One, and once, last.
Butchered, mourned, sold for a dollar twenty-five at the corner store on Park and 49th. I see, she thinks. She has soil for her cactus. The sun is hot. She squats in the storm shelters in the park. She picks at her eyes. She squalors the first level. The heated fathers have erected themselves into parents and the children no longer see god.