angels and sailors

always a playground instructor, never a killer,
always a bridesmaid on the verge of fame or over,
he maneuvered two girls in to his hotel room. one a friend, the other, the young one, a newer stranger
vaguely mexican or puerto rican.
poor boys thighs and buttocks scarred by a father's belt, she's trying to rise.
story of her boyfriend, of teenage stoned death games, handsome lad, dead in a car.
confusion.
no connections.
come here.
i love you.
peace on earth.
will you die for me?
eat me.
this way.


[...]


i'm surprised you could get it up.
he whips her lightly, sardonically, with belt.
haven't i been through enough? she asks,now dressed and leaving
the spanish girl begins to bleed; she says her period. it's catholic heaven.
i have an ancient indian crucifix around my neck, my chest is hard and brown.
lying on stained, wretched sheets with a bleeding virgin,
we could plan a murder,
or start a religion...




jim morrison