Outsiders Inc. (or This Poem is a Crime of Passion)

I.
You wanna talk about outsider?
I’ll show you outsider!

Rack-and-bone boy unwinding
struggle-thin sinews,
grapple-scraping your brick
in a grim hug of spite,
his hunger-bright eyes
glaring in at your window,
which you just now realise you’ve
left unlatched and so you snatch
at the hasp and hit it home
with a satisfying click.

You can see, as you fall back
from the double-glazing, the bird-heart
beating beneath his nearly translucent
skin, bare-chested as he has come to you,
baring a soul you wish he’d leave
well enough hidden.

II.
outside,
he’s out, to one side
on all sides,
no way in,
all ways out,
out.

even scrap paper walls
are too strong for him,
he can’t break through,
he’s out,
outside.

he flails out there,
a filthy snowflake vanishing
in all that endless whiteness.

III.
Conflagration!
Skulls Aflame!
Crime of Passion!
Run!
Run!
Run for your lies!
The skies are bleeding!
The sticky-blooded bones are sticking
out on stick men stacked
in writhing piles on your doorsteps
and all the world is laughing behind its hand
at the cosmic jubilee that is coming down
on high heads un-expectant and unrepentant!

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