As terrified of glitter
as if it were poison,
those boys dance around
with sticks in their fists,
claiming they are impervious
to fear. Claiming birthrights
and heritages they’ve made up,
devoid of sweetness and flash,
these boys prepare a sham parade
for their false history of a future country
whose only social rituals
will be shouting matches and funerals.
Terrified of glitter and resentful
of rainbows, this clump of boys —
this clot of twisted ball sweat, this lump
of damage and lost anger —
steps up smartly to their idiot march.
If there’s a God, God will surely toss
a handful of shine behind them to clean up
the stink they leave behind.