I want to be pierced onto my beloved
My cult awaits.
The crowd stumbles en masse from the bar to the proscenium. From the margins of the theater, my beloved and I emerge onto the stage. The footlights are modest, our phantom shadows sway over the house, and I keenly sense buzzing anticipation. The footlights are raised, just so much, to see outfits of distressed red and black leather. Painted faces.
I may wear bowties, but I don’t write poetry about trees, and lakes, and birds. There’s gotta be a reason for this, my hidden psychiatrists. For example:
A petite woman joins us onstage, carrying utility belt tools around her goth skirt. Pale winter skin against black latex gloves. She bends at her knees before my beloved, brings her tools to bear as the house lights flicker. The audience gasps and giggles as my beloved giggles and gasps. The petite woman bows before me, and completes her inflictions. Now I too am pierced, and my beloved is pierced, and we are connected by three purple chains, skinny as baby snakes.
I’ve barely been on stage, and I’ve only ever had one piercing. I’d like to be able to write, like an adult, just tell a story, but my dick gets in the way. And thus:
The footlights come up, full, as our petite piercer departs. The backing band comes into view, and two guitars are brought onto the stage, before my beloved and me. The two of us, we circle each other, the chain’s tightness pulling us toward each other. Centripetal intercourse. Our skin pulls and vibrates. We leave blood on the stage. The drums kick in: one two three four.
The audience is gorgeous, all shapes and sizes and colors. The unkempt, the disused – these are friends of all manners. We have a sweetheart contract. The night is sexy, and I wanna fuck everyone in sight.
For you, sweetheart, I leave blood on the page.