After the first cut these dry bones could speak.
Look. My arms have scars where the old bone-blade
pressed in; where I anointed this antique
to gods who demand blood. Once more I’ve splayed
open my skin, yet somehow remained chaste.
In the realms of love there are ghosts begging
for this. It’s hard to tell hell when distaste
is all that you can see in those staring
back. Bareback bones sopped fat with blood, my blood,
my gore galore, rancid wounds dripping want.
All my kindred are here: loveless, jilted,
spurned souls. We speak, we sing of all that haunts
discerning, semi-literate perverts …
brooder’s passion. Tryst between introverts.