I feel

the harpy screech across the fields behind my eyes.
The virulence of AIDs,
the chancre of pain.
To rip it from my flesh.
Give me a knife to cut away
the fat white globules
of self-loathing.

At first Freud said,
The women tell the truth.
and then he said,
They lie.

And I, I heave in the ambiguity of the line.
Did I, did he?

This betrayal pins me,
a wooden stake through the heart,
pinioned, in agony my lips drawn back.

See me rock back and forth
with a stake through the heart
pinioned.

unfree
undead

Give me a crucifix
a wreath of garlic
something to stop
the waking through sleep
the baby's blood which
drips from my mouth
to the ground.

Barren barren
dust and ash

Sear my flesh,
cauterize it clean,
even if the proudflesh scar
still swells.

#1, Down for the Count || #3, Triptych