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.