A Story of Love, for Rozz Williams

Wild Thing Love

I.

Wild thing Love, when it first lashes out, and much too powerful the way its early fire a first time burns, such that it will forever leave its photographic shadow on a soul.

So it happened that a young boy Roger was made to fall in love with Jesus.
No wonder anybody else would hardly stand to be an equal.
A child can love as deeply as an adult, but some children have a heart so deep that it can hold a well of desperate fire. No fence, no gate, no leash was put to hold that love at bay, as it conquered, undetected, the young boy's heart, raging in his veins, so that soon by a miracle he grew, looked around, and found himself alone.
God and Love are a perfect match for each other, they can easily be mistaken for the same, for both have a way of never showing up for a desperate young heart.
When a soul aches for a mate, one who knows poetry, and not a soul around for miles. Thousands of days rise in flame and likewise die.
So, God, Love and Loneliness come to sit in Trinity in the boy's heart, as it is forged in white-hot pain, while the grown-ups read the Book.

Just out of the door of Childhood walked Roger, a delicate-sexed boy, where faithful Death waited to greet him, just a companion for the immaculate young years, when all you wish for is to get dirty, and look up close the worms do their work, in a skull or eye-socket which isn't your mother's, or a friend's, or yours, as you slurp your drink from a can.
Laden with talent, covering his barely shared breast in layers of rayon and a brooch for good measure, the boy now called himself Rozz.
Such youth contemplated greatness in perspective, firmly believing in a dérèglement de tous les senses, and breathed fire in nights of immortality, all the while, as youth likes, spending freely of its coin.
Faraway, quenching rains started to fall, like endless tears of a trusting heart, bitterly disappointed.

One day, out of somewhere, a disembodied and chilly wind comes solitarily up the deserted cemetery alley, under a low striped black sky dramatically gaping in a yellow dawn.
Misery, decay and the vulgar pain of the body appear in the doorway like hags.

While Rozz was dreaming in his nightmare, under the bed, on the floor, his clothes and shoes looked old.

The skull, once a prop, or a curiosity for goths, now said: Memento.