At hell’s gate the damned, in turn, pace and burn.

Harvest moon came too soon for them. For us,

though, Death herself holds up her skirts to turn

so that her clit shines between shorn, beardless

lips. Like you, my sumptuous grin hide ghastly

teeth. When I grimace chipped canines suggest

that I’d rather rip meat than eat dainty

morsels. Of course that’s wrong; I can digest

anything that comes my way –– omnivore

obscene. Marking you with love bites improves

your taste. What you call hardcore makes me go

all blood-rush famished. “Eat to the Beat”? Hoar

hound, please, our hips skip, then eclipse. It proves

that we’re not damned, just hell lit and aglow.

note.

“Eat to the Beat” is the title of a Blondie record.