Little boys all kneeling, innocent taste buds suggest that wine is fire and they
wonder how blood can be so bitter;
pierce the tongue for succor, give it real blood so it knows the difference.
It's just grapes in a glass and there's a song as they drink, harsh like horse hair scraped strings,
and do angels sing?
No.
A gold tuba killed them.
It's just a bass clef, all cows eat grass, and save face because it's painful sometimes
when you slit the Catholic throat.
That's what David Bowie said anyway and his skin is perfect.
It wasn't sex... it was something else.
He was not inside me,
Underneath but not inside.
I felt it scratching,
But it was wet everywhere!
Like a punctured water balloon in summer.
Wet and killing me,
So much water in my eyes.
I couldn't see.
But it wasn't black, just fuzzy.
And firm.
We disappeared into a shadow and he made a joke about death,
Then the moon came back and we were white and naked.
We were like hair, like strands in the laundry
That strangle the corners of towels,
We were like circles, like a graph with a piece intersecting,
But it was not sex.
Something else, something unctuous.
It stained my underwear.
Amanda LaFantasie © August 2012
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