The whole world sleeps, foolish world, while I creep
through the shadows, wearing only anklet
bell-chains and a grin. In your room, you sleep
as well, glasses cockeyed, all your chocolate
hues gone aubergine. I adore a bed
strewn with book. A bedroom in disarray
from long writing. You are a creature dead
to my dark world. I brush your hair away
slice your skull open with thumb, forefinger.
You praise our cunts and cocks. But I confess
the brain is the tastiest of organs.
Yours smells of Bengal and Sanskrit. Lover,
I scoop your skull clean; then leave you, scarless,
vexed in sleep by the love of a demon’s.