Tallow in winter. That long-toothed ruin
wrung from drippings. The decay of Eros
dribbling down my wrist. Say it in Latin.
[Demon] [Possession] “Daemonicus.”
Possession. Mine. Flesh rendered so I’m fit
for your gluttony. Yet something fetid
hangs in the frozen air. Frostbit. The bit
that was a nose, two lips, one pale eyelid.
Frostbite leaves the dark pit in my skull
exposed. It takes a certain hungry gall
to snog with just any possessed bastard.
They say if you can’t be a good example
then be a grisly warning. Gouged; I’m all
brittle bone. Now kiss me like a blizzard.
