hellsforheroes

There are sanguine flecks of Pollyanna on the pillow of a rosary for the god she made me pray to, I was in the clutches of a cradle of haphazard babies I swore to always lie through. I was the screwed and the skewed from the pews of scented dastard Beelzebub devilry with the smell of impure religion gone philosophy gone gotten to me. I was to propose revelry to a world I dont agree to see, a pedaled flesh dying for just the turning of my cherry brown eyes, the rapture, the sodden impregnation of a nation wrapped in grinning germs of the silk perversion, the active illicit sticky streams aware of the purged sensory salvation in the ramshackle porous captivity of laying back on the worship woven blankets of generations kneading generation into the ashes of dirt, the spent uranium in the hearts of all yonder autumn leaving youth, glowing green for spent black skies, flickering with worlds of pallid livid lightning suns nova-ing only to show their lovely patriarch they are majestic enough and whiten enough to tear the sky inward to gulp the whole of worlds in a heart too big, a calamity so tiny in my view. I was in lust, lost in the echoing loons of my voice, my blanketed stare accompaniment into her pine eyes hugging me for warmth. I was able, I might be, able to give after a lifetime of southern comfort, a whiskey kinship and a bottled companionship I pray to never sever with jagged lording swords of derelict diction and manic devices, younger smaller dapple tweeds, sweeter less aged wines, tighter whimpered hollering, clutching feathered thighs with the inception of reception. I was befallen of the quivers of arrows slung to moon celibate free dandy daffodil dangers, the blue spruce ornate in wild yester abandon, the prick with the resin, the scent with the prison in her heart, the squeezes of hands stretching farther through tender than adventures of mountain men perched upon the path whistling the mid-sun daze to the cardinals of churches I still hate, and birds I love to pepper with ruby rue damsels and the flushing tips of turning milk into butter, turning teeth into chatter, turning her into a tiny little transistor radio chirping for the Phil Spector ghostly specter of her being my little baby, ba-boom after ba-boom, the bass reeling her magnet around a compass polar purged for the bears of bare wind under the blanket of naked knickers at the ankles of god, the grass wet with frozen flowering casualty waiting for winter to brittle break its vibrancy, the stalwart of late lazy rainbow snap dragons, the growth of the chopping horses a few pushed past the dandelion felons of forgetful Sundays in a pancake and syrup free summer already burnt with a fading serial sun, and a dying light, the night owl owning most of the growing day, and her breath stealing most of my sound. The drawl of her triangulation was beyond the pontiff I swear to violate in my vital erector set less than midriff, her church was so holy that the now never ever crossed the decision to why and how, I was stuck with my cocksure loin in the belly of a hairless beast taught for nothing but suburban desire, searching for no kinder form of retreat, only swallowing me whole, devouring my lot, she wanted everything I had and I just was happy to lose, happy to be dead, and long forgot. The glow of the neighbors bedroom flushed across the views they never saw, the futile touches of their fat candor, never seeing the spawn of a dozen beautiful arches of her screaming incantation, her white on peach lithe nipple poking the eyes of the moon in tow, watching waiting knowing more than a man, knowing and caring less than the god, that hated me. The prayer in my shawl was wrapped to blue bind by different fringes, and the knife I bore early to my private skin, protected me I swear, I was three rolls deep in San Andreas trembling architecture of a new right and just deity, so far away from the pews of a wasted teaching and a sacrificed soul, she was my bloody Mary confession, a little preacher in some night, she was the silver platter turned collection plate and the salvation, a modern day Madonna eager in my manicured backyard emancipation. Set me free lord, set me free, bind me only to your vast universe, and bless me by the stars, fill me of the mothers nature I was walking the hot coals, prophesizing the future. I was right to rob my cradle and wrong to sell my gold, I was lonely in the autumn, and welcomed in a blanket a million miles from the cold. I was falling like the leaves and changing my winds to the tone of an endless dawn, I was some inches deep in the eyes of a doe eyed blond.