picket circles and a war cry.
fantasy is a strong drink
never in short supply
my name is man
from this I've never sobered.
but strike I will,
the cost of some
image, some
wish, some
sensation
is far too much
you can't pay these bodies enough
to push aside the price.
angry men
no,
mad men
dictate the archives of fantasy
but my body strikes
no madman,
violent, cold
can stamp out the rebellion
it is simply a march
toward better manhood
simply
men,
no,
better men
not wanting the faces of
madmen
anywhere near their fantasy
my body strikes,
at endless war with madmen
hoisting women
trophies on pitchforks
I will not
and my body strikes.
so tomorrow fantasy can wipe its eyes
of muddied waters
stirred by the careless touch of madmen,
my body strikes,
tonight,
to know that my desire will have broken
the grip of ignorance by
morning.
my body strikes
starves
abstains
in the now, in order that
the next indulgence
disregards, humors not
the world outside my lover.
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