Meditations upon Perversion

Mourn, O Venuses and Cupids,

For hope has died

And there can be no consequence

But the dragging of a nail file

(Face with cult ash pied)

From wrist to elbow,

Whispering curses

To fill the swear jar,

And proclamations of self-hate,

Thick as bitter tar.

​

I, Coward

Must be content with

Scored skin,

Veins intact,

Bones thin,

And apprehension

Before the bathroom mirrors.

​

But there are better ways

To feel

Alive.

So cast aside your cross

And join the jive

Bids Satan

And I follow.

​

Enjoy me, darling,

No, not you,

Vestal virgin love.

In your stead

I have the minds'

Slut.

Never wont to shove

With silence

Man's thirsty ambition.

​

So open up

Like a fresh oyster

Allow a goddess to come forth;

Let me to rule you

Filthy whore

Let my manhood be your true North,

Lady of the silver screen,

Field of many harvests:

Yet with false ecstacy scream,

As if I am the very first

To plough, sow, reap

With serfdom's thirst.

​

Allow your legs to taste me:

Gaping, wide mouth,

Vertical, swollen, lips:

Taste desperate flesh

Through desperate, lying hand.

Moan

As though you truly enjoy me

Teeth on tits

Tongue seeking

Infancy's cornucopia so to at last to win

Serpent round

Forbidden fruit

Oh the joys of blatant sin!

​

Look me in the eye

And allow scented hair

To swat my cheek:

Rule me,

Tell sweet lies

To servant meek

Of how you truly

Love my thighs,

Loins unused

Except furtively,

Stealing in the night

What is not his

To take within his feeble might.

​

Certain virgin,

Yet not chaste,

Seeks to follow

Swiv'ling waist;

Eyelids flutter;

He soon swoons,

Purring voice

God's word lampoons;

Racing heart

And darting hand

Upon fatal staff

Doth land.

Ecstasy,

The heart of shame.

Who can he but weakness blame?

​

He awakens.

Slowly.

Bitterly.

Regret doth rise.

He starts to ail.

Light breaks the night time's

Black lace, harlot's bosom veil.

Dead seed soon dries:

A loser's unholy sepulchre,

A sinner's silent tomb.

Alone.

Broken.

Dead.

To cry is he unable.

His lifeless heart is stable.

Hair soon greased,

In time for

Eucharistic Feast.

​

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