is my personal slave.
It is the tragic hero of my sonnet-ed
life. I am here where the only
restriction is my own
macabre Geryon floating beside
my shoulder. "Be as hard as you wish,
leave and play at your whim."
He is coming on to me, making me feel
slimy like him.
He is the salesman
of a bizarre room -
a purgatorio constructed by me
where he is the only furniture.
If I listen, I am damned by my own guilt
and he, small wings flapping
against the torrent of hell,
will lift me up
and place me in the maw of satan.