One day,
when you and I were sitting in a park,
you reached over and touched my hair.
"It's so soft," you murmured.

My smile was cynical.
"It's the same make up
as the finest silk of china
used for the perfect kimono of a japanese geisha."

Your fingers went through it like
waves through seaweed,
you wanted the secret,
I could tell,
your eyes shone like greed had posessed them.

"It's angel jizz," I whispered to you,
and your look turned to one of
consternation or befuddlement.

I took you home and showed it to you,
poured a daub into my hands
out of an ordinary shampoo bottle,
it shone silver,
tiny halos floating within,
and smelled faintly of flowers,
trying to cover the scent of sin.

That night you went home
and jerked off into a cup,
then poured it into your sister's shampoo,
so her hair could be as fine
as silk of the orient

with the gleam of whoredom.

When I saw her the next day,
the sin in her hair so obvious,
her appeal so cheap and French,
I wanted to cry,
because that was the day
I knew for sure
you weren't an angel anymore.