Here is the cum that I spread on the bread.
Here is the blood that I spread on the cum.
Here is the burning candle that I’ve fed
them both to while her owl sang a solemn
whinnying song in the dark tree. Altar
to her name and tongue, her cleft and cleavage:
Owl-Faced-Moon. The-One-Whose-Cums-In-Carnage …
Each night an offering of my essence
is left for her. Bread soaks up everything
that I smear on it. If she’s pleased she sends
her owl, filling the night with the fragrance
of raunch and vixen fever, countering
cunts and lasciviousness that transcends.