FREED VERSE

The soul of these streets beats 
like their patent leather boots.
The boots that are knock,
knock, knocking.
Knocking at our chamber doors.
Cried the queen, nevermore.

These arched entryways know her better
than the K-9 shepherds parked outside.
Her tongue creeps down Diana’s throat,
name in the paper be damned.
She frenches your belittled wars;
Cried the dyke, nevermore.

Skin breaks by his shouts, 
a resounding F-U
to match the F-A-G 
carved into his wrists.
His cuffs tighten, and yet–
Cried the faggot, nevermore.

These bricks of Pallas stained with blood,
mingling with the lipstick stains
above the bathroom mirror.
Blood shed 
from the fists we pump.
Cried the queer, nevermore.