Time came unbound
like your feather wild hair,
the feeling shadows of thorn,
endtimes laid on the plate
of a destitute breast.

It was hell dark
in the filthy theatre.
The old ticket-girl sat ****
and tattoed, like Madame Defarge
knitting the playlist for the guillotine ball.

And so clicked the tale
from her needles to mine;
how He spoke to the girl
in the bathtub forsaken,
razor-naked and numb:

'You die before living--' said
the Dark Prince, 'a sad backwards thing;
spread for me--learn.'

He brought her on velvet
the delight-box of tortures,
the ambrosia of Tantalus
to put between her legs.
He artfully taught her

to rub out the human
for the animal clench,
to **** all the sweetness,
climb hard for the falling,
then took it away

from the mad thing a-mumble
in her wilderness skull,
wearing the blind face
of an ancient race
we can no longer know.

He left laughing
laughing
on His way through the endtimes,
for the Fall was forgotten
and Death held no ease.



©joyannjones February 2013