Erzebet Dreams

I. Wings
free-floating, save for the roots
that grip helplessly at the air
long-eradicated and searching for
ground.

City smells
of an overripe fetus
cut and hacked in butchery
hung by a steel hook,
(one glinting eye in the rot)
while the rest is drowned
and strewn in the sewer tunnels
bread crumbs of the fiendish Hansel.

Lids like slits
as if everything must be taken in with
perforating menace, as if
they'd never fully opened to
encompass the world.
It's no pity that you're broken.
The solitude will do you good
(undoubtably). . . .
But ask:
Do you make friends out of carrion?
Effigies of meat that grin
flesh-grinder songs,

as if legend had never awoken, never
fell asleep.

II. You cannot maintain that it was
only to have their blood. No; that
would be dishonest, and even in a house
of such elegant lies (to keep sated the horror)
this is unacceptable. You must tell us—
profess, if you will, the immediate satisfaction
for their silver-crimson
satiny slippers— but again,
it was hardly just for the blood.
The blood was a bonus, similar to
the pain that follows declining ecstacy
(despair from losing the high). If torture
was the lily,
(delicate and bequeathing the rose-tinted ash)
blood was the smell: fleshy
cat yowl, such strands of too-gold hair matted in pieces
of a digested body whose songs now grind
molars. Acquire the epitaph and you,
you shall have a symphony of skin,
while the rats nibble y our eye lids
and lips. Star-kicking
is hardly a sufficient method of drawing blood,
deary; and, yet,
it was hardly inappropriate.

It percolates collects in cups,
bowls,
basins.

The iron maiden is tireless,
both witness and companion
to the grotesque opera