Exquisite Whore

The march of April as she taunts
With bare toe the martyrs below
Woven snow rouses dilettantes
From her skirts, urging them to go
Above and beyond the fragrant
Departure where her lilies grow.
A cavern shattered, their lips’ plastered rings
Clatter against her hips where hammers swing.

Heat blown and breath spent, it’s sudden
How torment flicks out its ashes
Scorching rebuttals on someone’s
Tongue, rebranding others’ asse(t)s;
A storm’s wetness comes, summ’ning them
To go down, her hands relentless.
Bottles of blonde—thrown bombs—explode in palms
The sun’s silk, lashing bare backs without balm.

Sisyphean epiphanies
clique; at once ecstasy and wit
run together; lightning with ease
evades an age darkened by its
b(l)acklittered aloofinati’s
bewildered tools, trashing too quick
The wisdom of humanity. One spark
Striking, an exquisite whore forges art

Unmasking the world, asking for
It to behold its frightening
Face. A brothel where cuneiform
Slurs embrace each word guiding them,
Each girl double-dips into your
Sacred space; your white-as-icing
Stolen, once milked, makes its own tasteless haste
Goin’ down her throat and straight to her waste.

Known anatomically, not
Personally, two gods break their
Moulds off and boldly reconstruct
Themselves partially where warfare
Failed constantly. What they forgot
Was to build what could be repaired;
And so each Inquisitor breaking hearts
Fathers exquisite whores born into sparks.