St. Jean of The Black Ink Flowers on Brown Paper Bags

he stands patient, resigned standing still like a urinal his life before him like a line of prisoners cruel before him woolen pants, worn shoes hands in pockets trouser belts loose nervously shifting weight from foot to foot like cattle on the killing floor they unzip themselves to sanctify him and his dreams with black piss soot he stands patient resigned one day they will call him st jean saint, divine and they will make an altar in a dark empty church of his humiliated mind he folds the rapist's face in half closes his eyes and stifles a laugh when he was a mass of sores condemned and banished weeping and bleeding to these dark fisted leper whores they served his cock erect on a silver plate to the prison queen salome when he was shunned to these dripping cellars where thieves bless killers in catacombs of cracking bones where light flickers under shadow halos of rust tin lanterns that sway in the slightest breeze like october leaves of his endless fall of bleak tommorrows he gazed at the solitude of his darkness and he made a solemn vow to swallow his darkness into his faintest memories and then he fucked his body hollow... one day they will call me st jean st jean of perpetual sorrow patron saint of lofty indifference and then one day many days from now i will take off these boots and follow Rimbaud to the black heart of africa where my body will shiver as my penis grows... he writes his hearts on brown paper bags memories Divine in her passion ripped evening gown make up smeared by bottles of wine her penis hardens as he goes down... he grips his cock with penetrated hands red blood wounds of his saviour's caress blood mingles with cum to another moments bliss as white lillies blossom from the tip of his cock of the purest white spring jizz... if it never freezes here it never thaws either here planets fornicate with rabbit abandon he waits each night in trembling dark for the cymbol crash of the guards baton that reminds him that even here time must pass in the cold of his room alone in darkening gloom the warmth of the hands sliding down his pants are neither welcomed nor his own... his cock stiffens with the rigor mortis of his nightly death to the present like a bull poisoned by adder venom he is fucked by fangs unseen, trampled unrepented he writes his flowers on brown paper bags he keeps them folded and tucked under tongue thin pillows hidden between the coils of rusted springs away from from prying eyes until no one else is around and he pulls them out like lovers mounds of tender trembling flesh he caresses them gently lightly fingers their crumpled scars kisses the black ink flowers of brown paper petals smoothes out their dimpled folds until stiffly he rises like the memory sighs of his ejaculated masterpiece of passions tender holds his brown paper boquet every night he holds them to understand til passion takes root to decay as he crushes them in his hand grow, grow grow my flowers take root in this soil pregnant and yearning white lillies bloom to seed my soul alone and burning in the shade of these paper leaves that i crush into a ball and let grow like vines to wind upwards into my sleeves to my throat like a mourner's shawl one day they will call me st jean and they will write my name in flowers Divine as always will stand above me as my passion begins to sway of that moments bliss when memories is lost deep in pleasure swallows...thnx to all who humoured my petulant ego...;) Written February 28th, 2002 © on Feb 28 2002 02:19 PM PST   17 • 0 • 16