Moth Men Draping Silk on the Smaller Boys.

adonis blue.
clay.

Young boys, carrying the ancient deities on their shoulders,
wearing the wealth of older men around their collars & wrists,
leading the thrashing forces on chains dripping from them
like diamond inlets ripped from their skin.
And their young flesh, their hot blood, more important
than their gender.
The gristle of their meat that these men gnaw on.
Not just the flush of their bodies
or their phylogenetic perch on drooping branches,
but the spectra of their faces:
____that fear and shock, that apathetic slickness,
____the apples of their pinkened humiliation. a range
____that the old gods reigned in, limited to looks
____of hunger. and gazes of satisfaction.
But he has stopped pinkening.
Thievery of bone of his wrists in the bathtub
legs crossed on porcelain-steeped pupal dryness
laced and gartered, black
hair run back by the faucet water, waterfalling,
to his collar bones.
His eyes unsee. His exoskeleton softens to
let the dangers of the day pierce him.
The boy arches back and rests his head, honey-sweet
against the rim of the bathtub, jaw cutting
through the cocoon of his owner's hand.
Phallic and fallacious, just on the tip of
his tongue.
He is not hungry, this boy. He is not destined for the
envy of young flesh and malleable anatomy.
He moves and magnets are mesmerized. The above
strains to meet him below.
He owns God, with every padding step from the
bathroom to the bed, his shackles shedding on the floor as he goes.
♠ ♠ ♠
insects 1.1