Tonight I desire a leper,

yes, let it be known. A

             wrecked thing.

 

The carrion beetles

would even find you

grotesque and yet I

see that beauty, that

Wyrden skin that speaks

of far greater flesh-work

than necromantic

memories and flesh-pot

Gaudi dreams.

 

I am in love with the hideous

and I claim it is for my

deeper magic that I flee

to such a damaged carcass,

such a useless bag

                   of flesh.

 

But no. I lie. Isn't that like

a witch to lie? I can hear

them say it. I know they

say it. A real reason I can

give only to the initiated.

 

For in truth I love the wicked,

the broken and the damned

only for the quite un-Wyrden

reason that I myself appear

whole

yes, whole,

in light of you.

 

See, now, the weakness in

such strength. Look upon

my body huddled to this corpse

of a love and see the scalding truth

illuminate the evening bliss of

my witchcraft.

 

I am incomplete. And in the

Wyrd I search for the more broken

to set my own clock-hands

moving with an alacrity

that covers the clanging tick

of failure underneath

the gilded work.

 

I need an ugly love to

cover an ugly need.