Another Mattress Shrink, Another Reign of Terror

There are four, five, six
who cannot possess me, where
I lie fixed, translucent, milky as male death.
Feu d’artifice for the twinkling of an eye–
One, two, hung in the snare
of the guillotine, where the slack then snaps
and all is done.

Believe me, believe me!
Autumn came scurrying,
bringing aptness into heartbound hunting,
the chill, the hunger, a trigger so light.
See in me a rumination of some true soul, when
the others, whose skulls jangle
of sensualism, plaid, and ribbon bows,
myopic to their volitional ignominy,
like a suicide.

Lady architect to erect
vermilion from cinnabar,
and a chalice of divine ambrosial nectar
to daub the ambush wrought quite punitively,
fashioned exhaustively, consciously.
Lemon gin lady, is it wine tonight?
Passion–yes–this is my toil:
mint, chardonnay, and olive oil.

You, who traipse my logger’s path,
and linger on every milepost,
whose traversing survey maps
my forehead, eyebrows, and lips–
I cannot linger here, my nature is bowed.
Après moi, le déluge, and no return,
for the rivers here run fathomless.

But mint, unescorted, leaves a searing feel,
a dry mouth, like the death of autumn–
you'll knead it over the table,
a resigned pleading for warmth,
for my cordiality.

But I jerk and seize with every pull–
it is uncontrollable–another toe, another nail,
another Jacobin reaction.
Lady!
Drink your wine–
pretend this ruin is yours to design.
Another head in the basket, another gasp, architect,
your Bastille has gone away, my strings oscillate, the people
call for your head.

But touch me, touch me!
In this pillory, if you could
fix my eye, brave compass, you'd dream
not of ignition, of arson, but of
quenching impious devotion.
Melt, melt!
Quiet down.

There are three, seven, ten
in line for the guillotine.
Like a somnambulist,
Petrushka’s limbs jerk and dangle
recklessly on this solstice,
like some cleaved troika, whose
bells toll? A voice? Static? Whose
wind tears through–
this girl doesn’t flinch, as
terror coils up at virtue’s waist,
waiting for the fall.

There’s no redemption here, just
the grind, the cut, and the flesh parting like earth–
pages torn from the mangled, abhorrent body.
No final line, no “Hurrah!”–
only torture, indulgence, le déluge
ripping my organs, limbs, so
I will start with my fingers
and work my way down, sensually.
I will take pleasure in tearing my flesh apart.