the ballad of his grey underpants

silent purple, the colour of yellow,

below his moustached breath

inverting sleep,

my in-born myopia, an orbiting witness,

to a song of his penis,

serenading previous assfucks from orbiting bodies

like his own, unlike

my own.

silent sleeper, a flash of homicide,

squinting or darting are my eyes

like a syringe to long hallways of hospitals,

his maroon capsule and my childish insomnia,

the eastern secrets of Syria,

urinating through the wounds of his Good Fridays.

no sheepskin.  no latex.  never

my kind.

silent seams, the candled grey,

pillowing and soft, afraid

of being greased by warnings,

an insignia to my bedtime deaths,

his arabian sun and the scorpion under his hair,

the sole religion of my days.

warming the thinning threats,

of the love i cling to and who i call

my devil.