Cyprianus

i. Confession

am I above or below this?
within or without its vicious
circle’s protective constriction?
conjuring a demon, my heart’s
desire, or scrawling fiction? if
the third time’s a charm, will I be
harmed by the tattooed arms of the
third guy I draw in? scared or scarred
by what his ink spells, what blood his
bite’s teeth spill? am I thrice-greatest,
dust deposing good-old Hermes
Trismegistus, or am I just
a piece-of-shit that knows who he
is? this kid I want to impress,
I want to possess, a love like
his, someone to share my life with,

ii. Conversion

at once in my mind and by my
side like a secret or weapon,
on the receiving end of my
knife, desperate enough to kiss,
pain I want to marry and share,
fear delighted just to have been
invited to witness it, and
maybe even participate
in, this nightmarish existence
of mine no mage’s ritual
can erase, or prayer-in-reverse
stir, nor exorcist restore to
peace, no return to Eden or
getting even, or even your
release from me when we both end
up inhabiting the same dream,

iii. Martyrdom

the same damned and cracked realm as Saint
Cyprian, that desert when and
where he chased Justina with that
dragon, buyer beware, souls are
sold as-is, without warranty
or guarantee, without any
reason, really, so before you
say so and go full-throttle, know
your captor, caveat emptor,
vade retro me, Satana,
et cetera, et cetera,
et cetera, ad nauseam…
tell me now, how badly you want
me, how bad you want me to be,
baby, since a magician is
a loaded gun with no safety.