Some like it perverse. Rose petaled bed, warm
music and black silk wrapped around your eyes
cannot mask an abattoir nor the storm
of pain, crisis and hope between your thighs.
Slaughterhouse rules. Faith’s mystery exposed.
Faith mixed with carnage. Let other saviors
curse your soul’s carnal side; souls starve when closed.
–– Will yours? What will save you? –– I’ve got altars
ready for prayer with foreplay, with sweet words.
Ready to blow; strike you down like stockyard
bolts or old-school gods. You’ve got a drunkard’s
need to be saved that leaves me braggart hard.
Bet your soul I won’t? This, too, is rescue;
when you drip cum, my cock buried in you.