Lorenzo Buford
Tragedy is sitting in a window
smoking what's left of a rolled joint
eyeing the sleeping twisted nude bodies.
Each of these bodies serves as an off-key high note.
Violent thoughts did not stain the sheets
as they have encumbered minds to slumber
and they stir the nude in their sleep
as restless images contort sleeping faces.
Charisma is not wanted when the animal scent
fires the nostrils, enflames the blood and
the primal scream rises in their genitals
as they tear and scratch at each other
while drinking in kisses, pulling the breathe
out of each other and scream inaudible sounds
and give birth to images
that will siphon life out of them.
As they pass from the world of shadows
into the flesh of the Other
these shadows are looking out
through the wounds of their human counterparts.
Neutered in daily life they seek the confines of the night
where the daytime faces come to full light
though shadowed with the forbidden, the perverse,
the obscene, the degradation, the shades of evil;
their fun is brought in to full flame from initiating pain
into their sexual subjects using their fears as fuel.
These phallic predators seek to dominate
and seed themselves in caves where someone else
will nurture their repressions manifesting
Egregores into other's psyches
Tragedy keeps an emotional distance while ravishing bodies,
and makes these bodies into temples to erect false images.
Seeds urinated from the mouth, seeds urinated from phallus;
and seeds urinated from images in the minds,
all lay dying on a foot trodden carpet,
on cotton sheets wrinkled and stained from sweaty bodies,
on hands crusted over from hatred, and on faces seasoned with perversity
to find some semblance of power even if it is temporary.
The twisted smile which surfaces after their release
makes them think they have touched god
when they have cum inside, outside,
on the nameless body
and they have only witness the feast of the shadows.
Someone they remembered from the past
put periods into their non-ending sentences
as they attempt to make a bridge
into the human consciousness
who has given them flesh
and they think for a moment
they see the soul weeping glistening tears
but it's just the reflection from a cigarette
Bitter taste from lube is still on lips.
Condoms crawl across the floor slowly
like dying worms full of their poison.
Beer cans, wine bottles lay on their back
fallen from battle, and clothes are scattered about
as if someone had scaled a fish.
So Tragedy sits in the window,
singing its siren song
for the next nameless stranger
to help them feast on their shadows.
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