I still swear to you by scourge and blowtorch
that at the next stroke you’ll bleat ugly sounds.
Ugly deeds call for the grim “K” of scorch,
quetch, crave. Flick of a supple cane astounds,
raising welts and devils. Call this art brut,
raw burn, a perfect howling pitch locked
inside you. I’ll free it. Others live mute —
waiting for that, “one day.” I know they’ve mocked
your dire itch, your distress. But they don’t cum
when I call you. Bend down. Lift up your dress.
Trust me: I might be cruel working stiff but
I get the job done. Like prayer. Like venom.
Like the song that tells us how to transgress
with the pain that drives both saint and poet.