Like a king who lived in darkness
He failed to shine his crown with dreams
Of attending prom dressed in a ball gown
"He's just a bitch"
And though it hurts with every laugh
Animals still stick their necks out
Like hungry giraffes
To vomit in the occupied stall
As if he were a harlot
With a sick fetish
Coiling stench of a full grown circumcision
In which he'd relish
And these days, instinct must stay in your head.
Our conscience is not our conscience,
just a mindfuck risen from the dead...
"God himself doesn't even know how
to make a man!"
Says the street preacher
With a homemade bible in his hand
He calls himself a healer
With the condescending essence
Of a political figure
Worshiping such a holy quandary
Like ignorance to androgyny
©2011 Anthony Desmond Scott. All Rights Reserved.