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.