Dancing between the cotton sheers of
a crimson night
light shining through, tinting my skin
tenacious in its touch
most brilliant in hue.
a technicolor, bull-teasing red in
a black and white
salt and pepper
dance on the fire of the burning books
laughing at the powerlessness of
coats us all, a most precious film
like the charcoal with which you
does it not sound enticing?
Can you judge –
if you could become
The Thing you fear
Would you not wed?
I want to fuck death’s power
from whence will you come
burn your bald feet on the bright
and fading coals?
Your cotton ties,