Member-only story
Poetry
Wingless
‘Had I as many souls as there be stars, I’d give them all for Mephistopheles’ — Dr Faustus
In a society that composes love notes
to the off-licence,
where the moon is a handful of sex
and its rusted beams call on small gods,
I am born to be trailed by Mephistopheles:
music-plated,
covered in angel-dust placenta —
pink as bloodied knees, soft as Haribo.
But there is no red cloak for me now.
The stalker wears it —
it matches his brimstone-burnt skin.
I gave him all of my souls and he sings small songs
inside my throat
to calm my cavalries as they fidget
like children’s fingers,
like tadpoles,
like ADHD.
He defies God
and weeps for it. He is bitter
because he has 10 thousand hells inside his stomach
that could cook
even the rawest of souls.
He wraps his arms around my neck
and grips hard
until I can gasp nothing
but his name.
He encourages godlessness
for he knows that being god-free
is the…
