i hardly believe in ghost stories, Captain Barbossa.
I no longer need you to fuck me as hard
as I hate myself.
Make love to me
like you know I am better than the worst thing I ever did.
I’m new to this
but I have seen nearly every city from a rooftop without jumping.
I have realized
that the moon did not have to be full for us to love it.
We are not tragedies
stranded here beneath it.
We are better human beings when we are with the person we are suposed to be with. I wasn’t supposed to leave. I belong here.
When God created his angels he did not mean
to make divinely cruel urban monsters who
stalk back alleys and lurk in the shadows.
Michael breathes out smog and a Bowie knife
is clutched in his hand. He uses it for fun.
Raphael’s grin glints gold in the amber lighting:
angels live for war.
They all move as a unit. In Heaven
they were called a garrison.
Here, they are a gang.
On the other side of town is Lucifer,
pressing hasty kisses on Lillith’s neck in a
dirty restroom. Her lipstick is sin-red and smudged.
Hell is a dusty dive bar, the Throne
a battered bar stool and Lucifer reigns triumphant.
He rules the south side and tomorrow he will
battle Michael tooth and nail for the west.
God gave his angels form
and they did the rest.