04-13-2013, 10:54 AM
Her body's God to me.
Springing from an ancient well of joy,
it yields to my fists.
I knead its hills and valleys
like a giant crawling through Yorkshire.
Which god would deny man its beauties?
(The same god who created
and filled it with hate for man and his urges.)
She's dead tonight,
lost in an artificial sleep no-one could approach.
Lecherous physician,
childish necrophile,
I touch and lick, breathing hastily,
an African boy at a trough of meat.
She'll wake tomorrow and read scripture
while torturing herself,
unaware that I've broken our pact.
Picture her stuck to the cross,
nails where nipples should be,
poking through her tits in halos of blood.
Her cunt is a tangle of thorns
no husband could touch or child escape.
And on her face are the orgasms she's denied man,
as rivers of heavenly light pour from her eyes.
Springing from an ancient well of joy,
it yields to my fists.
I knead its hills and valleys
like a giant crawling through Yorkshire.
Which god would deny man its beauties?
(The same god who created
and filled it with hate for man and his urges.)
She's dead tonight,
lost in an artificial sleep no-one could approach.
Lecherous physician,
childish necrophile,
I touch and lick, breathing hastily,
an African boy at a trough of meat.
She'll wake tomorrow and read scripture
while torturing herself,
unaware that I've broken our pact.
Picture her stuck to the cross,
nails where nipples should be,
poking through her tits in halos of blood.
Her cunt is a tangle of thorns
no husband could touch or child escape.
And on her face are the orgasms she's denied man,
as rivers of heavenly light pour from her eyes.
"We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges." - Gene Wolfe