Don’t, they say. It’s fantasy. They don’t want
to know, they say. It’s dreams where everyone
suffers from plastic, Victoria’s gaunt
secret and sex is hot simplex-free fun.
Honey, they’d never let you in our hell.
Salvation for me ain’t no damn haven
where the saved are all erotic rebels;
always wet, always hard, always molten
fucking. Because when love fills you with grief
that can’t be consoled they say don’t. Their dream
demands that everything be mind-blowing
for minds that never are. Here’s my belief
that there is an end to hell. Don’t blaspheme
holy sex, don’t curse love, don’t damn dreaming.