(content) Hunger

[heslopian]

“hunger” is a word we associate with passion.

I imagine one of those country piles, at night,
dark resting like dust on the lawns,
while in the pristine dining room,
napkin lilies set to float down china plates,
cutlery gleaming, android jewellery,
below labyrinthine chandeliers,
the assembled aristocracy, Lady Smyth
and her husband Lord George,
their son Grayson (‘just back from Cambridge!’)
and various breathing blouses, shirts,
trousers and cufflinks, raise their knives,
their forks, their spoons, and then attack each other,
marking those limbs which first compel them,
soon fucking the resultant wounds, the new orifice,
until what began as virginal calm
degenerates into bejewelled savagery,
blood mingling with sperm like paint.