Within his paw
smeared blood red
by a deliberately mocking thorn
strip of cloth confined narrowly
between the love and the life lines
what remained of her
what remained of the underthings beneath
fluffing rows of silk
the heavy skirt had been raised
above the ankles
the creases no longer hidden in shadow,
one leg hoisted over the back,
the reigns held expertly.
As it happens, the number Eight is
Strength (also Lust)
She had surely fled
She has surely flown
through the trees and away
Not on foot at-all
while the three saw her pass.
The two sisters
with that prince vulgaris looking on
Three daemon goblins watching from a distance
a smallish crashing
a scrap, sleepy and unfurled, relaxed
within the leaves that shudder
and give up the delicacy, slyly
into stubby fingers
The Woods are Laughing!
Did you notice any scent?
Did it linger between
the thumb and the ring?
the remnant of her flowers,
Petals flouncing, swirling
in odorous potentiality.
a scrap, yes
a deep seated souvenir
Can we re-fabricate the whole from this little thing, you think?
we want her.
there are things that we want to do with her.
They lean in close, nostrils flaring slightly
searching for the ambergris or the jasmine
settling instead to gaze upon
the still clutched
still a little springy
sprightly, o! the remnants of her liveliness
3: at least let us show you the stage that we’ve built
with a clean sheet,
and some sticks.
it’s called acting.
the wine and the wafer.
we’ve hidden in the trees’ darkening
what you would call
‘the mattress’ and
the leaves will crumple underfoot
as we ravish the ghost.
meanwhile, he’s petulant:
- why, if you’d just get off of that high horse!
- how long are you going to resist?
- are you STILL angry?
- why won’t you let me stick it in you?
she telegraphs her response, cough:
you do know that in this
(fingers pointing downward and across
as if to suggest that
had a specific location)
You are the wolf, right?
I, the girl, am in the forest
with my basket and
have got a
With matching hood and a single task
And YOU (with those other two *******) have decided
to bore me with this ****.
Daresay slow me the **** down.
Of course I will get rid of you.
Who am I talking to?
Let me also add that
there never has been any high-stepping
on my part,
no ankle twirling,
no mandate to impress
a stale balcony,
no sign of gaslit illuminated
that lay down flat perfectly upon the straps
that snap perfectly at the thigh,
NOT to be slid off a pert buttock (mine)
crumpled into a ball, ripped and torn
and yet I know that
the determined creature
more faithful than Argos
to wait a lazy eight
at grannie’s cozy house
in a sickly corner
over eager and overwrought with
and explosions of once sort or another,
irrelevant to me.
What I will admit to is
the touch of those grubby fingers
transubstantiated at my waist
from behind as usual
again too quick to make himself a beast
to rid himself of being a man.