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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.