Pages drip of youthful lust
with "Hand me your skin"
or "Live out your dream"
as a half human, half monster,
half genocide scene
in the plastic-pictured magazine.
Tall tales of true mountains
and the limits of sky
drop heavy anchors
on mythology lines;
a fable's crossed lie
bartered behind raised counters,
sits beside the trophy wife.
What colors attract these eyes!
Part suffrage and suffering,
part pattern reply;
our protagonists lose the battle
as war is thrown to the background
to frame celebrity antics
and falsified, mixed machines
living out the heathen's life beside
a twin on the left and a man on the right.
before the books burn,
the cases are said and set in stone:
"We live together to die alone."
Yet forget these words
in your home away from home:
the street corners of material bodies
and muscle fatigue
and less established, talented, grieving bleeds
that swallow dignity to live a false dream.
Tonight, I'll thank the magazine.