|Amand-r: Legal Goth Slayer, and Spice-Girl Executioner
The wheel is turning, but the hamster is dead.
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Even the most sublime
and perfect of all memories
may not be real.
You wake from dreams
screaming the name of a
mother you cannot remember,
hands grasping for an untouchable face,
feet pulsing with that dream-running
on a far away shore.
Joe calls you the ROG.
Methos, Adam, ROG, Benjamin,
Death, Pierson, et cetera. Et al.
You smile per usual.
No one ever gets it right.
When you are regarded
by Duncan with a critical eye,
it is your beer choice,
or jaded world view he is
considering, not some
invisible dotted line across
Relax, uncurl your fingers from
the table edge.
That back swing you used
on Silas was mercy. It was
mercy mercy mercy,
release from Kronos, for all,
the end of an era badly resurrected.
Tell yourself that like a mantra,
tell yourself that to curb the
pain, the gut-stab
of your perverted betrayal against
that child-like mind.
Silas liked to peel the skin
from women's faces with practiced hands.
You feed the monkeys in the zoo,
the ones that seem to bear his face:
mercy mercy mercy.
Forget how tall Nero was, in private you
Memorize Tom Jones songs,
and learn to limbo and twist
sock-clad feet slipping up and down the narrow
hallway, gracefulness a forgotten trick of the past.
When you are tired and lonely
in the early hours of dawn,
even the drunks, the street lamps,
police sirens and your own
scream her very name:
In your dreams, when Byron
asks you what you want on
your Tombstone, you tell him
"Pepperoni, sausage, and zucchini."
You always wake, giggling or crying.
hating yourself for not giving
up feeling, like you promised
your seeping, clandestine heart.
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