GLUT
You want to bind me this time –
It won’t hurt.
I am stuck in a snare, blinded
by the white bleach of your teeth.
You are the devil,
Hurt me and I would kiss you.
My stomach lining twists as thorns,
sunken and sore.
Your mouth a gaping black
descends across pale doves –
growling and moaning.
Here is your tomb, my body.
The Leviathan swallows
in pleasure.
I, a nothing.
FRANCIS
What am I to do against that long dread?
These men pinched and sucking,
Disciples yearning for a risen
Judas.
October, that unending bleed.
Wine and tears feel thick and heavy
in my room –
the junkyard of crucifix.
That scream of a wailing pope,
sitting clenched on his
bathroom cross.
Dozy on overdose.
What a pleasure, that bleeding I see.
Dark as if fresh from the womb –
asphyxiated and raw.
You are dead, no longer necessary,
Dirty like my itching wrists.
I eat what is left,
A damp carcass between the fingers.
Ignore the blood and dead box, honey.
Sweet God, give me this.
SWALLOW
I need love like the angels do
on their pearl soaked clouds.
I want that tumour fix,
that bondage.
Masturbator, fresh Christ.
I am orifice, I am empty –
rot if nothing else.
But God refuses.
No, he sits on his bed
and cries, biting fingernails
until they peel off.
Is this how angels are born?
Dead skin
unpeeled like old wallpaper
and then spat onto his floor.
He never liked me much,
so he eats me whole until I cry.
THROB
Open, again.
The angels do not scream like they used to.
They become counsellors,
or housewives heavy with spoons
and dope –
Licking and yearning
out of that great cage.
Come back
to that white room.
The carpet smells of death,
God says it is love but I know otherwise.
That rising ash from the therapist’s cigarette,
the smell of earth and sex.
It is finished they say
And the wound reopens, stained.
I laugh. I let go.