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No womb, no bloom, no plume of bloody breath

claiming divine chaos, divine vision ––

It’s the ones that want to kiss me to death,

lips to lips, our hips to hips, that won’t shun

this plump flesh, that I want. “Burn your marriage

bed,” the blind satyr said. “Dansés jémshen.”

Little daughter, kiss me. As if carnage

were that whack. Once again my swelling skin

rests in the palm of your hand, distending

the dark all around. No womb, no bloom, just

my cum coating your fingers. Lick them clean.

“Byéjémshen.” Come kiss me. I’m wanting

to want you. My whack smack. My angel dust.

My sick urges. My infernal machine.