Leggy and impenetrable,

the lissome fiend glides out of me,

like a misdirected bomb,

with its automatic propriety.

Unholy gentleman,

irrefutable and predictable,

do you ask nothing of me?


With your


petty, it is religion.

Like human interference,

vengeful and rigid

and I,

a stanched virgin, festering, her

disdain of men, in

a round bowel, an iron cauldron.

You plummet,

as they sleep, I wait under window,

disquieting defeat.


Her oils sizzle

it slips out,

lacy and transparent,

medicinal rosemary,

a mental ointment


Every night

as I keep her content, to find that I, I

did her in.

My Victorian

with her box of tin.

Her black wit, but

bleached body,

emanating cleanliness,

like her starched, burgundy dress,

willful prison.


Are you proud, dear, white one,

Halloween children, draped in linen?

All thoughts,

linear, medieval.

Poison apothecary, why I fear death,

tonight, bare,

behindlocked window,

my woman, the highwayman.


I sleep in mockery,

all grin, my countenance.

I sleep in health, freely.

High-heeled debauchery,

never healing,

cavernous red on your chest,

never baring your ankles

to social unrest.