It’s alright, I confess. The frosted echoes bluegold
melts
stained-glass
back into velvet opera chairs. This vicious nature
wakes us up inside,
tells us we’re alive,
forces us to not look away–
gasps, lunges, howls honey'd as ocean’s breath on the moors
at night. Him and I will survive
because we’ll survive together,
until Eternity has its fill. We’ll be on that next boat, new land
different name, kind of trip. We’ll be wearing
bullet wounds out like Versace.
We’ll taste iron
when we fuck. We’ll leave
and when we vanish
we’re never, ever coming back. How fast the shadows change tense
blending in with
more shadows,
our shadows
are shadows
queer halos
blending in with
more shadows, alchemizing Blaze—
in the last pew, the saffron-smoke eve
ning vespa is recited from a burned down church
between our sharp teeth and the layover’s aria:
Give us this day,
to recount
the dizzy feat
of flying moonless
and let us try once again
to Misbehave.
© 2024 West Ambrose
West Ambrose is a scrivener and performing artist. Check out his ever queer works at westofcanon.com. If you want anything published in The HLK quarterly or The Crow’s Nest, just ring for the masthead, and let them know.