The Last (P)Age of the Yellow Butterflies

July 18, 2017

You ask (wish) for a blank page, and get one with god scrawled on the back of it. Fuck. 

You say. Because you have seen this pattern before. Then,

You fainted on the Priest—the choir stopped mid-hymnal to watch,

Observe your passing, like a blind boy trying to make a tackle. 

This would be it. 

   But somehow, 

       You find yourself in crossing again, 

       The lyric Hailing lazily from your lips tenpence,

       After he tells you the vagina is for receiving, only,

       The penis for giving, the mouth for penance and anality, 

       Well, myth, not unalike that of a child born in the palms of winter, 

       The tar of his pastlife shit black into his mother's hands, 

    Holy innocence. 

           Breathless wonder, this child. Fed the body and blood well before flesh and wine and water,

           Well before he learned to carve and share and shave and set hammer to a nail, before he learns the iPhone will set names like his into auto-cap but won't... Nevermind. 


You ask


         For a blank page, maybe

Because you foresee the spindling of our web of worlds wrapping around the End like soft candy, and because end means repentance to you, still, inundated one, wishing these scrolls fly off like a bird aflame, 

   As if that will serve some apology

   For defacing the scripture. Tackling a saint.




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