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 Sep 2018
he stands outside the church in the snow.
sir, he says,
have you ever been touched by an angel?
have you drunk the nectar of the gods,
have you prayed at the altar of cherubim?

and cherub he is, all golden curls and rosy cheeks.
surely a beauty such as this is sent from above.
yes, you think,
the Lord has chosen me alone to receive His holy ecstasy.

so you follow through those grimy streets,
song of songs in your head, psalms dripping from your lips.
his touch is light, his voice is sweet,
and truly this must be Heaven.

Heaven is silken sheets and soft sighs.
Heaven is limbs entwined, words hushed and the room dark.
Heaven is a hand at your throat, the kiss of a knife,
oh, it is Heaven to die for Him.

he returns to the church to stand in the snow,
his pockets heavy but his heart light.
some say he sold his soul for the coin,
but I think he lost it a long, long time ago.
copyright g.wilson 2018
 Sep 2018
flies trapped in honey
narcissus drowning
sweating in your hospital bed

milk in your veins
adonis dying
electrodes to your head

morphine dreams
hyacinthus bleeding
bang bang, you’re dead
copyright g. wilson 2018
 Sep 2018
angels weep upon thy feet
thou body posed as if in sleep

kisses raining on thy face
forever in eternal grace

blood of father, spirit and son
drink of the eternal one

holy mother, purest flower
save us in our darkest hour

forgive my sin, forgive my lies
as i lay me down to die
copyright g. wilson 2018
 Sep 2018
slender fingers outstretched,
palms upturned,
your wounds are your stigmata,
an unholy ecstasy.

alabaster skin stained red,
sheets soaked in sweat,
hair plastered to your face.
how can agony be so beautiful?

surrounded in filth you are an angel
fallen to earth,
fallen to the gutter,
fallen into sin.

have you returned to your heavenly home?
i think i can hear your sigh
as you are welcomed to salvation.
the smell of your blood makes me puke.
copyright g. wilson 2018
 Sep 2018
cold and alone i am
where you touched me.
bees crawl my skin
and burrow down
to my sorrowful heart.

magnolias, crushed underfoot -
this was once a happy place -
but all that remains is
the stench of your lust.

i think my limbs were snapped
by your
sheer force
as you claimed my innocence
as i cried out to a god i don't believe in.

ghosts walk these gardens:
ghosts of the children
you leave broken
amongst the trampled magnolias.

i start,
gasping for air,
choking back sobs.
but this is not a dream.
copyright g. wilson 2018

— The End —