The Tomb’s Fruit, the Fuck Doll, the Mystic knows

that the mouth holds endless whims: my wind swims

in these words. My spit. My ire. “Eat me,” flows

out of Alice. Go south. Hold the rough rims

of your grotto askew. Ask any cave-

dwelling recluse to show you and they will:

be it stalactite, uvula or clit. We crave

sunlight but embrace wild darkness. We kill

any end that’s not lonesome, so that, “Find

solace in me,” becomes deceit. This wind

whimpers. I mean, slap me, choke me, fuck me.

Take me like Orpheus: broken and blind.

Now come. If you can’t cum you can’t transcend

this dark south that the Tomb calls, “fuckery.”