Mary, Mother of Christ: Tale of a Second Lover, by Blind Boy

The doctrine of Mary’s perpetual virginity omits the night we spent together. 

We made love in the sandy hills of Galilee, her hands calloused. 

Eyes holding pain, that’s why we were there. 

I took God’s lover as my own. 

In the hills, amongst the sheep. 

We forgot the horn of our shepherd.

“What is my son to me?” she questioned. 

“God, or at least, he will be” these words lines in the arid heat. 

“They’ll forget your name” humanity lays in my arms. 

“Your names will be white, your revolution too.” 

She cried out into the night.

Her nails left stigmata on my back. 

Hers was the only salvation. 

To see Blind Boy's earlier poems in The Eunuch, go here and here.

Ethical Platonic Polyromantic Ageplay Ode or the one where beauty is youth, youth beauty; by FalseAnon

If I am twenty-two, it is only because I have slept with twenty-two men and not due to any other assortment of factors, namely the number of trips I’ve made around the sun. If I am twenty-two, it is because I chose to be twenty-two. That makes you eleven and counting. Fine. Consequently, I’m 100% a pedophile. If only you were sixteen and a half—I’d more acceptably be 50% a pedophile. But unfortunately for my own reputation, you haven’t been as much of a whore as I am. And frankly, those good things came to an end for me recently. I know some days you look to me for how to live your life. Fine. I’ll father your mommy issues with my own daddy ones and give birth to one big, happy family. Age is but a number, but a number is the difference between three and two. If you want more birthdays, you can have them, and I’ll watch as you go from a boy to a man. I’ll watch you learn how to handle a woman. And in the meantime, I’ll keep getting younger than you. Younger every year until I’m just a girl you don’t know how to handle anymore. Because shhhhh, I know. I know that’s how you like it, daddy.