Dank, like sick. Huge, like “rouge jass.” The eldritch
horror sat on my chest and purred. Mouth, cunt,
budunkadunk; we all have ways in. Witch
without craft, shaman without gods; ancient
grudges have left me without familiar
or friend until, tossed in nightmare, I let
it in. Lich flesh. Lyke-Wake dirge. Corpse purr.
I’m all grease and juice and mutton bone. Wet
treat for ghastliness keen on all that smut.
Toothed lips. — Heinous anus. — Voracity
from hell. — Even if I’m only loved in
nightmare that’s enough, phatty bubble butt.
It’s still love hunched on my chest, teaching me
its queer language that has no word for sin.