Murky. Shapeless. Rag. Squeeze me here, I’ll mange

and moult. That’s not my flesh. These photos lie.

“But don’t they all? Those who dwell here must change,”

she said, “This wet, starved sheath shall ossify

to bone soon.” Her stoned stonework. “Lady bits,”

her son, Cthulhu, claimed. Tentacle pubes

and the big bling words: ossify, moult, clits.

None of that is found in these photos. Sleaze?

Maybe … but not meaning. Hashish muddles

me mind, dusk’s spliff, dusk’s gloaming. Under skirts

my dear eldritch horror had grown bouldered,

calcified. Flint’s bling. Flesh without jiggles

like seas without stars. Why? No: how? Perverts

taking selfies. Murky. Shapeless. Naked.