
excerpt from MOI BÊTE: A SADISTIC SEQUENCE
Blush pistils of twenty fragrant futilitarians
scour lofty suicides with stabbed halos
as pearls the pimply puss of sea, so
the cherried nouveau thirsts for gust.
Bulbous stigma of skirt sheathing silence
dew deviant curvature of skull’s delight; blossom
the stench sweet as strychnine still
and lurches style in hunger shirked.
Razor-backed filament of nature’s virtuous foe
gore starlit taunt by being born, simply so.
She-haunches reign, they sprinkle south
to finger beds in pollinated relief.
With stolen stoma, hip flask and carboned santoku
we revel as the harpsichordist plucks his sinew.