Tinsel

 Meet me, 
under the tree where we first met. 
Bring your own neck-tie,
body paint

From under the leaves, of our first kiss,
I will paint myself up, to look like christ,
the word 'f*g' engraved into your silver tongue,
underneath my heart, pressed to my iron lung,
god-like, martyrs, a case for the cause,
like the redwoods we ride, entwined under frost,
we will hang like ornaments, cast over pine,
on sacred wings, your hand pressed into mine,
on last breath, we will die in love,
god-like, sacred soldiers, on drugs

broken hole,
corporate inventions,
stop under foresight,
god, god hate them-
god hate them for what they have done.
Under no scrutiny of man can be defined, under love,
love, love is defined for no man, taught,
taught under lord christ, savior,
undone by the men who carry his name

On a winter morning, 1975, two bodies are found frozen, holding hands,
suspended in the air like paper dolls on ribbons, 
like sticks and stones, the ground work,
A man named Milk would take it back, but it would be too late,
the deal had been done, and love, had conquered all,
love, known by better men as marriage, stopped time.
Hold time, still.
Hold time, forever.
Hold time, over frozen footsteps, under frozen feet.
Time is over, friends.
Enimies. 
Heathens.

Make me.
Make me out of clay God, make me perfect.
Make us perfect.
If we were made in his image, God is a transgender queer-basher with a bigger stick than you,
who loves moherfuckers, like Satan loves forest fires, so it's only right that I ask one question,

Why?

Children, made in YOUR image. Dead.
Hung like tinsel from your tree.

It's only fair, I got a sick sense of humor myself. 
There really is a beauty to it all isnt there?

Reviews

[Alice Oiseau]

Emotional. And sliding out of control, especially towards the end.
But certain images were powerful. You definitely have a unique way with words. i.e. silver tongue, iron lung, like paper dolls on ribbons.
Those were just a few of my favorites. Really, I am awed by parts of this poem. Outstanding, to be honest.
But.
Control. It is essential.
Watch out for that, no matter how passionate you feel about certain topics. Profanity does nothing for the poem, except when used in context.

Keep writing.
Cheers.