God, Strung Out

by Christopher Stella

To a fragile mind’s tidal-wave eyes a stained-glass horizon peeled out
of Los Angeles, a bastion of bleach-jeaned beauty, a mental cold turned
of heat mania, blathering her flagellated Christian intangible doubt
of intuition. Dread-locked and sweet, petite-stout, desolate and drained
of light, Reformation ,and black-barley wine poured from her lips
of tightened rebar towards hips of linen-night gossiped silence.
We basked in the sun for days and neon-eves of blissful horror, nips
we would take of cheap malt liquor and the unique mental, menial violence
we, she mostly, induced from blood-libel, stillborn ideas of morality. Broken,
we strolled through sand and stick-poked tattoo seas on tired-eyes.
We, being groggy and blear-faced at dawn, would struggle, barely woken,
to trek Oxnard and Long Beach for record stores of crust and crucifix’d commie-                           

Pawning fillings from coffee-stained teeth to drag ourselves from squat-to-squat,
we learned quickly of aged consent alive, decaying, in romanticized urban rot.   

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