the forces of everything great big black
and spidery,
moving your guts around, frying your skin.
like a nuclear beach.
a chemical burn, a chemical clean
moving you from point A to point B,
like a magnet dragged across a refrigerator.
to the untrained eye you look a martyr for the devil.
you will be a household name,
salt on the household’s tongue
but nonetheless,
on its tongue.
to die for this cause is to stare the many-headed beast in the face,
to yell “OH SHIT” as the weight of the world dawns on you. to be
blinded by the sheer light and glory of all the great big black and
spidery things.
to touch God and have him bullet your blood away.
the man behind the curtain, the shadows outside of the cave,
all are staring at you and pointing.
like Jesus at his heart,
like Judas wet on your cheek.
there was all this, and more:
back when the world held mystique.
but now you are on camera.
now it’s hopeless.
now? let us go ballroom dancing.
-- Bray Evans is a writer and filmmaker from Ohio. @girlpynchon on twitter