Haven comes in psychokick flick-knives, nails,
poor boy honey, joombye and beat-up doll’s
spit, the kind kids call: knee tremble details,
vicious buttercream, phat fanny bomb brawls.
Circle jerks and splooge shissom are code names.
We dance to Kunt Kustard trance, Cock Vomit
and their five finger solos. Roaring-flames.
Lusty-guts. Rump-shakers. Fabulous smut
is my bible, nancy high boy my priest,
roundheeled gal my oracle. Like acid
I lick both sides of the stamp. Odds be raised,
I’m still your lollipop stop, your greased feast,
batty rider. Clit club, a stud of blood
in your sweet death. Mort douce. Dog-knotted glaze.