It takes a special breed of asshole
to believe anything Morrissey spouts out
when he is or isn’t singing about loneliness
or coming together in a heated moment
so hot you would forget he’s passionless
when it comes right down to traditional forms
of passion in the biblical sense of the word.
But we’re not talking about the Bible.
We’re listening to wailing about passion so strong
you’re willing to die by the side of someone
you’re actually connecting with,
a passion that doesn’t come from Christ,
that doesn’t come prescribed by a lecturing
reverend too ready and willing to tell you
about faith out of one side of his mouth
while chewing on fiery brimstone in the other
cheek he wouldn’t turn to save your life
if it cost him the free house your offering
pays for every Sunday you make the mistake of going
to sleep through another sermon instead of spending
your good, hard-earned money on something
that actually offers you a reward in return,
whether it be happy hour booze or a matinee
showing an old schlock flick with a rampaging monster
no one in their right mind would waste time on
just to find out there’s something moving
beneath the red-dyed corn syrup and fake breasts
not quite worth dying over because they must be past
their expiration date. But we work with what we got,
and sometimes, the only light we have is projecting
blood and sex in a celluloid showcase of twisted horror
hiding the same desire Morrissey preached about:
the call to find someone you would happily die for
if it meant you got to be with them for one more night.
Deron Eckert is a writer and poet who lives in Lexington, Kentucky. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Rattle, Strange Horizons, Door is a Jar, Ghost City Review, Maudlin House, The Fourth River, and elsewhere. He can be found on Instagram at deroneckert and Twitter @DeronEckert.
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