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Mephistopheles and the boy-angels who undid him good.

They’re so creamy, dreamy. They taunt both sexes. They lure with mouths who are the porthole to queer heaven.

I see them once in a while, though I’m not certain where. Eyes which soak up the sky, chew it all up to blue pieces and spit it out. Moves that cajole the air. Of here. Of there. A little a bit of this, but mostly a lot of that. These boy-angels are both the rose and the thorn. They were the kerosene when art was on fire.

From Michelangelo to Warhol, they have whispered and teased, baited and inspired.

Their name is David. Their name is cherub. Their name is love gone mad.

And whenever I allow my glances to turn into bold stares which could blister the skin off their ethereal faces–I chastise myself for wanting something so poetic. Then, I give myself absolution, for if the Devil himself could no resist the boy-angels in the final act of his pantomime, then who am I to deny them power over me ?

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About Mel

Montreal queer fiction writer.

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