Blessed are the Lovers

Whisper to me, I’m slowly dying,

your hushed tone comforts this

everlasting waste, this nitro fuel

laced drink, the matinee in place,

and I sleep inside of your heart,

a wisp of your blood – a soothing

blanket for my cold life,



forbidden, and I burnt the books,

and I took the looks and laughed

at splashing frogs, buttressed by

creaking logs, before you filled

them with beer and we watched

them as they burst


in a trope, like,

I have never painted, this trance,

fugue, passive, rancid, travesty


we are cupid, we are mermaids,

fueled by harsh waves and ready

doves, I swim inside your throat,


hug me like the last, like I am a

brute force-gale-wind, sick math,

I say, sick until the casket cloth

rots away, until my eye colors

drip from my wretched face, but

I always have you,


in the remains

of the world, when the electric

eels touch your breasts, I will be

the hand in the dark, guiding you

like braille, standing with you for

the moon drop blood clot Cadillac

knapsack, and we’ll press ourselves

to the window,


hoping for one last look at the body,

before the door swings brash, and

the little boys and girls dance wild

on top of the closed trap, once in



forever in death


~ by Shawn M. Young on May 19, 2017.

4 Responses to “Blessed are the Lovers”

  1. excellent poem Shawn. Really enjoyed the imagery in this one.

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