Peel back the madness
like snake-thin sun-burnt skin
and watch the monsters dance.

Demon horn bugles
sound the roar of repression
as dirty magazines weep
from their prisons
between mattress and box-spring.

Soldiers rip their own guts out
in darkened hospital tents,
their minds sick
with shrapnel nightmares.

In the church bathroom
during the coffee social
right after the eleven a.m. mass,
Desire stands in a closed stall,
belt unbuckled,
his arms tiring.

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