I gathered wild grief stricken boys
And stored them in glass jars
Their moon shine eyes hooded,
Under the train tracks red light glow
Much like the local strip of neon slit sidewalks.
I realized I was not so much the Doreen in my queer little life
So much as I was Esther.
When I’d take slugs of cheap wine whilst reading the classics
And writing obscure essays and analysing dead poets
Licking the burgundy liquid from my wrists
And mopping up the spilled ink
With my frayed sleeves.
The autumn air smells of rot and I can’t help but reminisce
About bonfires in old abandoned warehouses
Where we’d run across open fields that split the sky
Open and twisted it into
Something like a looking glass
Except there’s no fire in your eyes.
Just watered down sonnets about girls who work at diners
For minimum wage, who get into cheap bars,
And drink martinis with rich business men.
Maybe we were born to be the lost generation
Or maybe silver linings
Are just the silver refracted in our skulls
But I can’t help but ache for those days
Where the moon hangs like a cadaver
Draping my telegraph limbs
in sacrilege and crystal castles.