#1
Timothy rips pages out of a gasping Bible,

bloody and agnostic
with his seventeen years
of bad Luck.

he wonders, after all these years
and dysfunction;

he wonders if he
doesn?t believe more in the
Cold Blood
of a Dead Christ
than in the Lukewarm coagulation
that silenced

a room full of bearded men ?

Salvation in the Winter months
tangles the window-pane neurons
dirtying up the
back alleys of his
catholic Mind.

The chalice lifts a lifeless hand up to eidolon lips
and spills

the broken Heart of a shipwrecked Son
over the sacerdotal silk and
little
golden
crosses.

Timothy knows he?s once been called a Saint,
but can?t help
slipping in between his Father?s sheets
to rest the severed head of a lonely Bacchus
on the silver pillow of
Company.

He can?t see his ruddy fingers
to count
the number of pills
he?s taken?
so far.

Palms ? his palms ? still covered in her sweat
(and the black bile
of ?truth?) ?
press against the lips,
applauding.

The shattered vases, terracotta
legionary,
are splayed on the soft lining

of a martyr?s Stomach,

leaking.

His words roll like
Three days of Soil
on the profane toil of epistemology,

breaking backs on his stiff tongue.

?why god, why God, why god, why God, why,?
the smirking dichotomy
of a
Father and a King.

timothy wishes she could see him now
like he always had been with all the shame
covering the writhing flesh,
hiding the pulsation
of a dwindling
heart ? cowering in the shadow of colossal Hope.

Straddling the undulations
of the Harbor.

timothy wishes she could see him now ?
cowering in a bastion of ****,
without an
Ivory thread to be found.

His wrists are twitching he isn?t sure if he can handle
following the northern
headboard ? star; the incessant ovation
of an eternal encore? The encore. The encore.

he hadn?t forgotten,
as
his red-dye palms contorted around
the gentle theology
of
water clenching
onto the spear he?d driven into his
Side,
a melancholic laugh
easing the retching of
Glass eyes.

+++

I owe some critiques, which will be rightfully delivered for the next wave of poetry/prose. (I'm a little sick right now, so the gears aren't quite clicking.) Ten bonus points to anyone who can guess all the allusions - because there's more than necessary. (Which, I have to add, is entirely the point - this isn't a standard poem and doesn't treat the amount of allusion in the standard school of thought.)