Martyr (for QAF improv)
****
"i wanna smash the faces of those beautiful boys- of those christian boys... so you can make me come, it doesn't make you jesus..."-tori amos
with enough chemicals in your body, you can convince yourself of practically anything. reality is an illusion, you muse.
you're not actually here, alone.
no. you're at the lezzie's wedding, back in pittsburgh,
drinking enough booze to kill a small horse, bitching about the cheapness of said booze, and passing out, in true kinney style.
it's what dad would've done.
not that reality is such a bad alternative...
pan to sun setting, splayed out across a gorgeous but vacant sandy miami beach. gazing at your feet, blistered from walking in the sun all day, weighed down by self pity.
you're stuck on it, nailed even, crucifixion by the psalms, palms twitching wildly, and you don't know why.
christ in white, your queer saviour's here.
how do you signify messiah, when you're all dressed in white, draped in wedding dressings, lace, and powdered sugar?
a bloodied teardrop falls to the ground tastes of grape vines and saltines and jizz dewdrops and anarchy.
cascade retching out your sanity, substitution: vinegar.
reminded you of that equal artificial sweetner shit that lindsay always had laying around the house. lying to you. damn her and her lilith fair and her sarah mclachlan lyrics always intruding on your privacy. and she was always right. how unfair.
course you'd thought it was unfair too when you were twelve and realized the truth "why me why me?" *
you vaguely remember a toga {did christ wear one too?} of blue and scarfs of white and scarfing and why did you always hold yourself out on a cross?
you know "are you coming or going or coming and then" arms
raised straight up and out, ready. always do that. that and bowling. goodbye jack. the same position.
you left because it was no fun in there. too fucking hot and there you were their brian kinney. here you were just an apostle too fucking many of them unnecessary. another queer.
last year was so much better...
so you left {as is habitual} it's more peaceful out here darkness at last so you could sleep, not drift out to sea, see him haunting.
maybe he's your mary magdalene.
or maybe not because then it would be him hallucinating, not vice versa. plus he's almost a whore.
that was almost your nightmare, and you were almost a dream
almost let him out of reach reached the pinochle of enlightenment {zen?} rectification.
always had to fucking pull you back make you think "oh well,
he's staying and being a friend and you've known them for longer and why the hell aren't you home?"
so maybe he's virginal, a mary down the aisle, turned pontius
pilate pilot of determination {what-are you whipped?}
and you're brian kinney, king {as he'd been too}, crown of
thorns, buried dreams and defense mechanisms, clad in your tattered silk robes, scarf, holding your priestly scepter of spears.
stigmata surrounded by hemorrhaging stars. an androgynous predicament. you're hungry stalking predatorily for your last supper. it's been hours {millennia} since. needing the protein
love these beautiful cocaine colored children, simply spectators at this trial, pass judgment but pass over you, more busy paying attention to the others anatomy. they don't care that you're out here. neither, apparently does anyone else.
you're dying on planks of wood crisscrossed across
forgive me father {like hell he would; your house was never one of prayer} for I am sin.
you walk with strong conviction towards the gates of heaven, rather babylon- esque, and accepted with open arms, pulsating bodies, grinding, lusty angel dusty flesh shimmering, bright lights and bouquets {see, wedding after all} death glorified feral and ethereal, eternally ashen.
he's dying for your sins.
what are you dying for?
****
"i wanna smash the faces of those beautiful boys- of those christian boys... so you can make me come, it doesn't make you jesus..."-tori amos
with enough chemicals in your body, you can convince yourself of practically anything. reality is an illusion, you muse.
you're not actually here, alone.
no. you're at the lezzie's wedding, back in pittsburgh,
drinking enough booze to kill a small horse, bitching about the cheapness of said booze, and passing out, in true kinney style.
it's what dad would've done.
not that reality is such a bad alternative...
pan to sun setting, splayed out across a gorgeous but vacant sandy miami beach. gazing at your feet, blistered from walking in the sun all day, weighed down by self pity.
you're stuck on it, nailed even, crucifixion by the psalms, palms twitching wildly, and you don't know why.
christ in white, your queer saviour's here.
how do you signify messiah, when you're all dressed in white, draped in wedding dressings, lace, and powdered sugar?
a bloodied teardrop falls to the ground tastes of grape vines and saltines and jizz dewdrops and anarchy.
cascade retching out your sanity, substitution: vinegar.
reminded you of that equal artificial sweetner shit that lindsay always had laying around the house. lying to you. damn her and her lilith fair and her sarah mclachlan lyrics always intruding on your privacy. and she was always right. how unfair.
course you'd thought it was unfair too when you were twelve and realized the truth "why me why me?" *
you vaguely remember a toga {did christ wear one too?} of blue and scarfs of white and scarfing and why did you always hold yourself out on a cross?
you know "are you coming or going or coming and then" arms
raised straight up and out, ready. always do that. that and bowling. goodbye jack. the same position.
you left because it was no fun in there. too fucking hot and there you were their brian kinney. here you were just an apostle too fucking many of them unnecessary. another queer.
last year was so much better...
so you left {as is habitual} it's more peaceful out here darkness at last so you could sleep, not drift out to sea, see him haunting.
maybe he's your mary magdalene.
or maybe not because then it would be him hallucinating, not vice versa. plus he's almost a whore.
that was almost your nightmare, and you were almost a dream
almost let him out of reach reached the pinochle of enlightenment {zen?} rectification.
always had to fucking pull you back make you think "oh well,
he's staying and being a friend and you've known them for longer and why the hell aren't you home?"
so maybe he's virginal, a mary down the aisle, turned pontius
pilate pilot of determination {what-are you whipped?}
and you're brian kinney, king {as he'd been too}, crown of
thorns, buried dreams and defense mechanisms, clad in your tattered silk robes, scarf, holding your priestly scepter of spears.
stigmata surrounded by hemorrhaging stars. an androgynous predicament. you're hungry stalking predatorily for your last supper. it's been hours {millennia} since. needing the protein
love these beautiful cocaine colored children, simply spectators at this trial, pass judgment but pass over you, more busy paying attention to the others anatomy. they don't care that you're out here. neither, apparently does anyone else.
you're dying on planks of wood crisscrossed across
forgive me father {like hell he would; your house was never one of prayer} for I am sin.
you walk with strong conviction towards the gates of heaven, rather babylon- esque, and accepted with open arms, pulsating bodies, grinding, lusty angel dusty flesh shimmering, bright lights and bouquets {see, wedding after all} death glorified feral and ethereal, eternally ashen.
he's dying for your sins.
what are you dying for?