You do not even know why living
Sirens bear the crucible of time
To forage for blood across
Your desultory lips. What
Pouts on moon-fleshed faces
Affronting you
In the afterlife’s supermarket,
Buying shrink-wrapped
Pieces of a divine body
To later engorge yourself with.
“Does the snow,” you ask later
At table, wiping crimson liver bits
From what osculated them,
“now linger on Dad’s Himalayan grave,
Over the unmarked stone
they could not roll away?”
Loveless flesh is heartburn now
Following the cannibal feast of saints
Who partook in this gluttony,
Phantasms palely famished
For your vagina celery-stuffed,
With toothpicked-azure eyes
Reserved for godly palate alone:
before vomiting it all
back up later
as Poe’s dessert?
