A coven went into its stitches,

Laughing as it tore through the linen

Of lips sewn with seven images.

Each parted, parched and gartered; threaded

With the lace of deep-hearted women,

Who, in their fit, freed Art and bled it.

Kissing guilt-framed pictures, those bitches

Ate, by ten, a flicker, an imprint,

Of what seemed endless pilgrimages.

One, with her one good eye, edited

The sacrilege; spilling, while trimming,

The cartilage of a film’s credits.

The Other, thin-veiled vulgar, binges,

Still, on the once-moving beginning;

That scene which I’d fled to finish this.

And Their Sister, catching me, read it;

Hot-handed, she’s branded this Fiction,

Though Truth li(n)es between those un-shredded.