My own blood flows through the veins of this tropical leaf;
The butterflies on strings, tangled and smothered,
perch in one, collapsing heap
on your bleeding back and rusted eyes,
while you try to climb my holy vines.

Back, back, to your hellish, happy land,
where the threadbare sugar fairies dance in deceived obedience
around you, your weak, bulging stomach and dirty nails,
you, wallowing in the congealing gleam of weary adoration,
supping on stale sacrifice.
They turn to me,
the sweet things with their slipping, black glasses
and awkward haircuts,
I who must needs pause in my shameless love-making
and offer soothing refreshment for their souls.

Oh, darling, I remember the sound of your heart breaking,
and wish I had relished it more at the time.