Dear God, when will it stop?
The tearing of my cathedral
whose blind lids once covered
the catastrophe of your visions.

I was your lover or something close,
a petrified forest whose roots
played with frozen emotions
afraid of the truth, the Freud child's
awareness, fine as broth brewing
enraged as incestuous
insanity.

His screams are disguised
like ******* love,
temerity so wretched
the walls look like nuggets,
golden as the sun
necessary as illusions,
pretty as lemons
but sour as miniature acres,
terrified hatreds.

Real men won't get it,
won't believe they've advanced
past her age of debauchery,
while savagery sings lullabies,
content as a handicap
twisted in the night
like perpetual
love.