Little Death Fairmount

The lure of oblivion
Seduces me into
The rich duvet whirl
Like a schoolgirl possessed
By hormonal unrest.

The keratoid scars
And the bars you frequented
Paint maps and give vent to
The deaths I have spent
In invisible arms

While subject to your charms.
You bring joy to self-harm,
Twilight boys enter calm.

I roam Indiana by night
And at Fairmount I sight
Your spare grave in the earth
In the town of your birth
You went far.
Who’ll forget who you are?

I’m staring through Jonathan
Gilmore’s old eyes
At a memory I’ve stolen
To help realize
The scene I fantasize.
The ultimate prize.

Back at the motel, I’ve got
Soil from your grave rubbed
Across my milk skin
So I’m breathing you in.

The blood runes are scattered.
The full moon is shattered.
I drift between worlds
Wrapped in hot linen curls.

I invoke you to being;
I summon you forth.

Homunculus moonchild
The gods I’m adopting
Are testimony
To how desperately
I want you writ in flesh.
Won’t you please manifest?

I’d swallow you in me;
Insatiable, hungrily.
Hugging you to me;
Sledgehammer boy screw me.
Thread your fluid through me.

Suspend me, upend me.
Contort, wreck and bend me.
Bind me and grind me.
Go deeper you’ll find me.
I’m plundered to ruins.
Thunder strikes you in
Me; little death quaking.
I’m heaving, I’m shaking.
You break me with thrusts
Throes of absolute lust
Till my guts are so numb
I can’t tell when you’ve come.

I lurch, the vision’s through.
I scope the room for you.
Then I recall you were
Last seen alive
In that treacherous fall
In 1955.

So how come I ache
And I bleed when I wake
From the parts where I sensed
Once a force so immense?

James Byron Dean,
The perennial teen
Died at 24 years;
Found his fame in arrears