Grind & Get-Up-On

                    i. Babylon at the Gates

Bleak beauty of a mistress at your wedding troubling, • tempting with her winter’s presence, her devastations of disastrous • astral breath rushing in as a northern wind does, • flame of tongue flickering against the gates of your • bride’s innocence, unchastening them with froth enough to blow • them open, skirting notice going below the perception of • the event’s distinguished guests by becoming indistinguishable, striking up • tempest, she ignites what no prayer will extinguish, performs • what ritual transforms a modest girl into a first-rate • whore, impoverishes the storehouse of her virtue’s decency by • bleeding its treasury of every moral left over from • before she turned toward the embrace of a mage • from whose sorceries her heart has no hope to • ever return, this courtesan ignores her cries of vows • and veils the dirty work of revenge in your • nubile new wife’s beautiful petticoats that expensive mouth searches • for a way in, knowing the only way out • is to keep on going, whether through hellfire ablaze • with unrepentant torture or this insufferable ceremony we all • have been called to witness today, your harem’s queen • conceding her crown to your sweet injecting clouds into • the deep, impregnating the sea beneath those pristine sheets • of crinoline buttressing that dress her worst intention wrinkles • •

                    ii. Sheba in the House of Solomon

and soils with relentless irony, the Other Woman’s ivory-lipped • kisses oyster-fresh with the stickiness of your lust fogging • up another woman’s ocean with whispered promises whistling through • her pearls of teeth whose crookedness your wealth’s discretion • paid to perfect, purchased the best mouth with which • she now enters your bride’s womb as a seed, • fills Persephone’s pomegranate with invective evils for you to • eat after having spent them knowing you two would • never again meet, infecting its fruit with each of • her own aching sins never once heard in any • confessional, to some, it is their total ruin, to • others yet, demonic possession is the most intimate form • of spirit communion, a filling in of one’s vanity’s • blankest vacancy with a potent entity always at the • ready to defend its conquered territory better than its • intended inhabitant ever did in the first place, when • reluctant to befriend an existential anomaly, or so such • sophistry might contend with such convenient fictions, anathemic pronouncements • espoused without remorse by her grin’s more quarrelsome voice, • to the contrary of any mainstream religion’s indoctrinated teachings, • heresies falling in rain from the sky her gaze • greys to surprise you with their silent attack from • inside the very brazen vessel you wish to occupy.