The age of your son clouds my imagination. Why does a boy shorter than most doorknobs have gray hair? Under what stress have you put his body under? What has he seen between the cracks of doors? Is his reality colored by cartoon books and stuffed animals with squashed faces and missing eyes? Does he live in an imagined world of sorcerers and captains with missing teeth? Or does he fret about his missing breakfast cereal, long gone and another never coming. Does he worry about his cold hands that have cracked in the grooves where his fingers meet? Has he thought about soldiers dying in the field, their bloody mouths calling for Maria, the mother of all? Have you told him that lie too?
Take your head out from the foggy London streets. There are no virgins here. The signs are everywhere. It comes with every fifth thought. On the ground is a stick shaped like an aroused man. There, in the tree trunk, is a raised knot shaped like a pleading ass hole, forever teasing, forever waiting for a branch to plunge inside. This isn’t just the directing of a foul mind, it’s nature, screaming for death and finding renewal. Crying for release and creating another.
The Christian band cannot play another song. I refuse.
I have cut their plastic strings in my silver teeth and made men from their cocks. The cords are severed, their mics lay as dust beneath my bare feet. The verses from scripture have turned blond-headed flocks into pudding-headed dolls that deny the laws of matter. Logic lays lifeless in their hands. Science, beheaded long ago. Come to me dressed in purple satin and perhaps you may find the real mother of all. Her thighs are wet, her mouth smells of faint fish and sweat. Her torn garments hang from her neck like ribbons from a maypole, rainbow colored and spotted with red. Her loins are torn…and open.
Our need for death comes before our first word. There is no virgin. Purity is for those who shut their minds to our defiled nature. It comes as naturally as birth, and yet you hide it in underground caves. We can see it leaking! Your purity is black and red, coloring the clouds for miles with your subverted lust. I am a seed of their lust, a creation of two robots fucking for death.
And they did, yet…continued to breathe.
And I, before my first steps, sought for death as well. And though I have imagined better, though I have sometimes worked to elevate my knowledge beyond the first few words of the dictionary; I am still remedial, lacking vocabulary, lacking intention. My thoughts fade as another wave of music drowns my crumbling skull. And then, drifting…I remember.
Have you ever understood that the nights in London where nothing but a nightmare drenched in colorful glass and sequined lingerie that fell for the first customer? They poured a fifth of their liquor into the piss-stained streets and still, you were able to walk down the marble steps without losing your teeth. Without losing the rest of your heart. I saw you directing rats in the sewers. They came to us from underground tunnels coated in grease. They came from villages and attics clogged in dust and broken Christmas lights, from the baker down the street and the dream that still clings to my consciousness.
The band lies broken and used while rats feast on the remaining lyrics. Dressed in ancient clothes that smell of mildew and lavender, your boy sings a sad song, seeing it all, despite the window you have shut.