She sleeps in the catacombs
and copulates with the corpse
She lies to the moon and the
stars and the night
At least the dead are honest
in their death-ness
I am with her
We desecrate the graves of martyrs
Even in my shame
I cannot stop.
When will Michael send his angelic army?
How long will the universe contend with this?
I am paralyzed
in her gaze, a glass pewter
Her jet black mane
and claw-fist
with the sun
she is vapor
And I leave
this worm place
to return
night after night.
The death cold at my back
and against my will