Some of us wear out, some rust. Devilkin,
dead love, what happened to you? I’ve passed through
gateways, played with a girl in a seal-skin,
slept with a wood sprite called Puck; I’ll tell you
why they call him Robin Goodfellow. But
you seem to have some unresolved business.
Like me. The first time that I was called slut
I burned the world down, in my head. Eros
does not protect those he touches; and, ghost,
we all need protection. If you kiss me
will you shatter in a shower of coals?
Or will you, like me, want more? It’s almost
dawn, do not leave. I’m alive and hungry.
Let us both resolve what’s damning our souls.
Freedom is not for the living, obsessed
with their soul’s salvation. The dead are, too,
but with their lost sex lives. You can be blessed
all you like, yet how bizarre the breakthrough
when the recently deceased realize
it was about being rude and smutty
with the gods through orgasm. All those lies
about how it’ll make you go blind, only
the hell-bound would say that. Orgasm
comes to you without need for a payment
or a promise. But why am I telling
you? You, who claims to know about freedom,
must know what it’s like to be pregnant
with mad need, praying to be touched, praying.
Grace flits by, a moment of bliss, then dumb
logic closes in. I drink and drink and …
I am a child of clay. Come, mold me. Numb
me. Tell me of salvation and dreamland.
Necromantica, indeed. Sparrows
fight near my window, then die, undaunted.
Each night a dead girl sucks on my ribs, flows
through me, the closest she’ll get to warm blood.
There are rational gods and there are mad ones.
I want neither. Just bliss. My stigmata
diaboli hurts. A kiss; now the air
withers around me. I have fucked legions,
sweated grace. I’ll save you from your dogma.
Come with me, cum with me, and rise like prayer.