The Assassin and The Angel
Something digs and swirls
through the cortex of the mind.
Grey masses revolting.
A distinct secretion
wetting my brow
rolling down the tip of my nose.
I wait on the roof
of a house of God.
Then
from extended Celtic member
fire out seeds of death.
They penetrate.
Releasing two souls.
An Anglo of rank
beside another born of Irish flesh.
Together for God
for her
they die...
I the Bohemian member
honour the cause with blood.
From the poets dutiful hand
a decade, over, of death.
And now I
the enchanter
amongst hysteria
flee.
Off
away
to my hovel and cot.
I dream
of a cherub dead
for hoisting a stone.
The stench of quietus
wafts upward to my nostrils.
She
of the Isle
comes in my state of trance.
Beauty
of pure fair skin
and locks of red.
The devout angel
cuddles my bleeding spirit.
Caresses my skin
from calf to head.
Kisses my breasts
leaving a trail of sweet liquid
fortified
across my belly.
Then up
she takes my organ
into her sheath
of mystical bliss.
My lips stray
passionately
over her swelling teats.
Lovers of insatiable yearnings
we act out the drama.
Moving as animal
uncontrolled.
Then
slowly and fully.
We tighten
all at once
together.
For a moment...
Lost.
For her
passé bourgeois endearments of love.
Saginaw offered
if for nothing else
but a stolen kiss.
Her
I pretend
no longer a promiscuous wench.
Now a faithful miss.
The hour
breaks my sleep.
The sun
darkens my spirit.
A widow
planted
in the corner
gnaws on her satisfied mate.
Beside
plastic
awaiting my touch.
Longing
for my hate.
I
cannot speak the prayer.
Shall I
contemplate love.
Her lips!
Her taste!
My spirit
murmurs and trembles.
lost in the tempest.
I reach.
the method of my birth.
shall escape the womb.
and in great pain.
as I aim and enter the cavern.
Parturition.
my ill restored Julliet.
as a cankerous, fetid, wretch.
an impossible love.
to prayer.
whom must die.
for Ireland.
Share
Print
Save
Follow
