Deep down the theater is a mystery
Of the phantom who lives in misery
A loathsome creature, masked in shame
He lives in the shadows amidst glory and fame

He runs the opera, they must follow his order
Or else, a catastrophe will occur
Opera Ghost, forever shall haunt
Abide in you, I shall never flaunt

The world created an Angel of Hell
Taught him to **** and become cruel
But deep inside is a frightened child
Who yearns for beauty and all things mild

A troubled entity beneath all fright
The Phantom of the Opera, the Music of the Night.

I sat on the bed, hunched.
If a gargoyle isn't being looked at, does it move?
Silent, hideous celebration of the dark.
All this is well and good.
But statues are made of stone.

Like a gargoyle on cloudy days,
It's hard to stop and to refrain
Form pouring all this gloomy rain
Freely around this marketplace.

The honey in the lion sounds like a delicious thing––
a gentle balm capable of subduing
the cruellest of monsters.

According to the stars and tattooed,
you fancied yourself king of the jungle––
lazy in hot African afternoons.

Golden and tawn with sleepy sun-gold eyes,
shaggy mane, muzzle red with
the blood of a gazelle.

Did you think me such easy prey?
Or was I so much fermented honey,
only a sweet intoxicant.

Sun warmth seeps from jungles of cold concrete.
I mistook your gargoyle wings
for those of a guardian angel’s.

I overlooked your rough skin, your
crooked hawk nose and your skinny ribs,
and assigned fine things in you that didn’t exist.

So duped, I acquiesced to your slimy kiss.
Your mouth a neglected cemetery,
teeth a row of mossy tombstones.

Vampire. Incubus. Your seduction like grotesque death.
You named me tempest in a teacup,
but I was the eye of the storm.

Until the night the eye was eradicated,
and the storm blew in,
striking me dumb with your sound and fury.

But no spattered blood and no spreading bruise
to be found in the pattern of the kaleidoscope.
No cause for alarm.

Today I am lost in a picture show,
a beautiful world coloured by nostalgic past.
Women’s lips the vivid red print of a velvet valentine.

Head in the Clouds, I fantasize about a certain scene.
Because you think violence is ****––
retaliation – ******* in my dream.

Give me an eye for my eye,
for all the eyes you plucked, from women and breadwinners.
Give me blood running down your back, sweet as honey.