the flower on the crucifix

is soap on a rope; rations of sixth form

diseases glistening in dark nail polish

and glue,

vintage self harm,

bloated suffering egos,

all covered with that cloying scent

of erected starvation

and the sun pisses on you and behold you are the man.

The roses grow internally amongst the opium fields-

artichokes, cactuses, icicles, all split the arteries, and the air bubbles

the brain,

pain marries beauty

and the sane sit on either side of you and roulette forgiveness,

with mouths of pips punctuating gorgeaus grins:

"You could be the biggest sucker of them all but we will cover all options

and thankyou for looking after us

because we are too much the prude."

maybe my forked tongue speaks too plainly

because you look like you could be in real pain.