You need the low angle for the camera
to zoom in on my frame: I can scale
the skies, jump down cars, beat
the baddies and romance girls
by age by half: I'm the hero. I defy
everything. Age included.

Look up close, there are no wrinkles;
Muscles, better than gymbuffs';
Hair, not a strand grey, and
skin, as elastic as young. Yet
I've been around for a good quarter
of the lives of you the commonfolk .

There is no start or middle here:
I know no crises, I know no end.
Touch the screen, feel
the sparkle! I'm the polestar
of the ordinary life, I defy
everything. Life included.

In the secret chamber of my private
existence, I sometimes peep
out of the looking glass, but
the glimpse you saw of my eye
blown up, is all you can catch
of the tears that line their tips.

Sickness, death, disease,
rats, bugs, ***** fleas;
Royal knights at ease,
not trying to appease
the masses anymore
as bodies amass on the floor.

Stomping down the corridor,
black-gowned conquistador
in court known as le docteur.
Majestically pointed beak,
leather satchel, utensils squeak
as one two three and four
the man takes to the floor-
And Waltz!

Clack the Castle door.
The wicker-faced figure
grows taller, grows bigger,
and one goes to figure
who first pulls the trigger
And Clasp!
Hands come together as one
step by step, step on the gown
almost trip and fall down,
white as silk and black as dawn;
A smirk met with a frown.

Endless days, deadly gaze
from beyond the red-glass eyes:
A mosaic from the skies
as God's son met his demise,
idolized by commonfolk,
glass sculptures embedded into walls.

The ******* of angels,
interlacing strangers;
masked visage from nature
in the form of bustling bees
busy beguiling Byzantine baronesses,
backstabbing brides, burning bioessence,
*******, burdens, nature's reconnaissance.
Tiny creatures nestled into wooden crates,
by the hands of humans' race;
the beekeepers their only living grace.

The two figures intertwined
Ying-yang dancing under starlight
Snow-white and the seven plagues
dressed in crystal, black parade.

The court jester coughs and gargles,
the monarchs paint the floors with blood,
as the silk road lifts embargoes;
a thousand-year old flood
of plague-infested spices,
time to roll the dices,
is it rats or mices,
who really cares,
everyone's already dead.

I feel,

like I always have,

The stubble on his chin
Bristling my underbelly like grass blades.
My warm skin melts it into moth wings that eat
Our shared sweaters in the closet space
He vacated three years ago,
When it was just fine to shout his name
Across the hall to make sure he ate dinner already,
To make sure the tickets were by the lampshade,
That the headphones were borrowed by his friend early that morning

I remember,

like I always have,

The way steam forms automatically
On glass panels when heated,
The strange shape of your voice,
The two strange shapes of your voice:

The first for me, was lovelier than the other-
It was the voice who asked how my summer had been.
The soothing, corrosive voice, telling my ex to *******.
It was a voice found in the thin aisles between Peruvian priests
When they come together and think they haven’t sinned.

The other voice was thick, turbid, and button-nosed.
The way asterisks quickly fixed typographical errors.
The sultry, commonfolk, arcane voice that I love so much.
It was heresy.

I’ve heard gems form at the mouth of deep reserves, and I’d like to pretend
That’s where you are
That’s where you went
That’s where you are hiding
And time comes when you return
Gem or sans gem,
I’ll put your chin, like I always have,
On my underbelly.
Like a infant who deployed
Without cutting their placenta open