Monster, monster; Beast knows that Belle sucks on
more than just iced cubes and sugared absinthe.
We’re told that they’re gods disguised: Leda’s swan,
Pasiphaë’s bull, Claudine’s ghostly dog. Nonsense.
What god needs deceit? Only a monster
hides its nature. I’ve lived on mezcal’s juice
squeezed by Bacchus. I’ve tripped balls and slaughter.
Unlike the Beast there’s no cursed prince to seduce
you in here –– just a salacious varmint
gorged on taproot, possessed by peyote,
taking you rough, “Coitus more ferarum,”
like the beasts in the field. Monster, you hint
at more. I say, on all fours; if, “doggy
style,” is sin, then it’s sin that brings wisdom.