Because we’re fragile. Because we spill truth
the way blue glass spills light. Because someone
loved us enough to be rude and uncouth,
crude and bestial, in ways that heaven
refuses to be. We’re the harbingers
of our fate. We’re cracks in the stonewall smile.
The blood-copper smell of sticky fingers
under your nose. Heh. Because the exile
wants to be something else. Because we all
want to be something else. Our mysteries
are just like that, kid. We’re unknowable.
We’re the cracked enigma. The thing you call
without a name. Except me. I’m a tease.
I’m what you want that’s rude and bestial.
the thing you call without a name
25 Tuesday Jun 2013
