INDIGO ANGEL

The evening sky was bleeding on the cruel horizon

as the rain fell from the Indigo Angel’s eyes to the ground.

The shattered calm of dusk,

squirmed in convulsions on the terra firma

where her heart slumped in a lump

like a dead skinless rabbit,

torn out, ripped out, from under her ribs,

and splattered on the stones,

by the demon who stole her soul one black magic eon

and made her to carve his likeness into her flesh

and burn for his return,

seeing in her angel mind,

herself, unfolding her wings,

impaled on his horn,

moaning songs of saturation,

and writing hymns for his arrivals,

and dirges for their departures,

and knowing only the mystery of the moment.

That black magic eon when the merciless gods

reached their minds into the deepest,

darkest, bluest crystal,

crossed the angel with a demon,

and the damage was done.

And the angel loves the demon.

And the demon loves the angel.

And their kisses mangle lips and shatter teeth.

And their caresses skin the skin and splinter bones.

And the bloody evening sky goes black

over a sobbing Indigo Angel,

penning poems of misery

for lovers under spells,

who hang, strangling,

by a frayed sinew of hope.