Love Died In ’91

Have you seen the multitudes thrive
In inhibited ignominy,
Licking stale blood off each other’s armpits?
No, you haven’t.
You live in a different tier of hell,
Don’t you, dear?
With your cars and your hounds,
The horned butlers
And the iron maidens,
You self-crowned empress,
The whore of Weelzewub.
This is your farm
These are your geese & pigs & calcified eggs
Harvested to be torn apart
And rejoined in a thousand new patterns.

I walk over the eggshells and mongol skulls
Towards your bed.
Your leopard, castrated, painted blue,
Leaps for my throat and chokes on its gold chain.
(I kick the carcass away to reach the final three feet.)

You’re still there: naked, proud, glistening
The Salome of slaughterhouses
Your skin smells of hair
Your hair of skin
Your lips taste of holocaust,
O mistress mine.

The arms open, the breasts sway,
Your nipples – erect – remind me of
Bayonets of riot police from a grainy past
As I, dazed, happy, sad, climb over
On all fours
(My butt thrusting sacrilegiously at your grandfather’s clock)
My chest hair shaved to form your name in the forbidden alphabet.

Your nails tear at my jaw
Your teeth pierce my shaft
You want my fluids, all of them,
As I want yours….. Mother.
Feed me at your breast,
Urinate on my face to wash my sins,
As we blend into each other,
Lost in our coitus fantasticus:
Sweet purgatory!