POETRY | ON MAPPLETHORPE
When we cry for the dead, it is ourselves
We cry for. Images in black and white
Flicker through tears. Sharp bone pale
In the night
Across the years. His memory on shelves
Refrigerated so that it might last
So that the silver printing cannot fade.
Sweat stank on leather each time he got laid
Penis like tender orchid curve carved mast
He celebrated fame and flower and fuck
Worked as a demon with dark angel hair
Love sex chose models and they are all there
Ambition art cash checkerboarded luck.
Faustfisted bargain passion love and fame
Boiled monkey skull will always call its claim.
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