The Dolls of Dresden Row

A lost highway of love threads its salty
satin into unsuspecting thighs, running
from top to bottom the path of our lies.

Across impugned verses flies a wounded
water, a sweet suckling sap tapped from tombs
of forests; torn groves overgrowing wombs.

Inside the throat of Judas burns a room
kindling sweating faggots under cauldron
tonsils tongued by flames scalding dragon brews.

We toss and tousle shorn mane, coursing to
iron blossom our bold profanity;
blaming hunger and thirst for all this shame.