Dead Star Confessional

It is stagnant, hot, dark as pitch.  It smells like death inside here.  And semen, rotting semen.  That’s right.  ‘Cuz there is a dead star in the confessional booth.   It stinks behind the velvet curtain, in this dusty wooden box.  Something died in here…a star.  Madonna’s naked corpse is flopped down in here, stinking it up.  The priest has to step over her bush to hear the other dead stars who cum in here.  Mostly they die in here because they don’t have enough life to get to the end of their confessions.  And there’s no putting on your sunglasses and quitting the booth and going out into the light for a greasy breakfast at the diner around the corner after a long night.  Which is all you get.  So there’s no way you’ll confess everything; there’s no way you’ll get to the end of it.  No way.  You die in here.  You fucking die.

Hey, you.  Yeah, you.  You wanna be a star?  You know you wanna…


12 responses to “Dead Star Confessional

  1. I wouldn’t want to be famous. Good to know quiet and private moments. I believe people lose control. Some drugs and life can take you to hell and you can’t find your way back. Amazing thoughts in this poem.

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