Pity fuck. Charity stare. Joan d’Arc
shrugged in her fazy way. Freckled face burn,
all pog but with searing eyes. Twixies’ dark
rain on a sharp waist bladed by iron
hip bones floating up over buoyant jokes.
Her eyes flitted open tongues twined, coin-groins
rubbed to a teen beat while beyond night oaks
and a waxing moon kite, rose silver coins,
sunken eyes, metal-black slashed honeybees.
“Joan will hug and kiss and spin you.” “Joan will
finger and fuck and cum on you.” Yes, she’s
one more strap-on savior that’s hard to kill.
“Of course I want it rough. Give me hardcore
fucking. Come,” said the ghost, “play with my gore.”
“Of course I want it rough. Give me hardcore
fucking. Come,” said the ghost, “play with my gore.”
