Engaged in Flames


Daughter of ashes dancing in the devil’s pasture, pouting
and posturing as proper in front of absent mother,
she breathed onto her sister’s quivering thighs a steady
warmth of studied, stuttering breath, enough to sully any
purity of thought, so that, surging with sin, suturing
in her lust’s ill-intent, sugaring them with a thin,
viscous dusting of that sweet white stuff, her brother-in-law


to come, her sister’s future husband, might later that
wedding night whet his appetite by licking off their
snowy surprise, enticed to eat that crystalline treat aligning
his tongue’s glide to that temple mount astride which
curtains part wide their invitation to worship her from
within, from inside heaven’s door, opened for him to
work that ritual which turns a trickle into a


downpour, winking with singular deception where one eye would
be, envision him approaching this wilderness retreat, her Cyclops
mouth bereft of teeth, biting his lip as he
breathes in fragrance he will greet with sweating attempts
at speaking without speaking what barbarous words, what frenetic
sentences, will be mouthed until, thrown to thrill by
his efforts, this conjurer of cunning linguistics with artful


skill licks her so well into ravenous, rapturous, ecstatic
submission pleasure spills from her throat without, for once,
the assistance below of her own fingertips, rigid and
splayed, treasury gate split for this marauder to raid
what takes others far longer to accomplish with much
more haste, ready to devour this Odyssean man whose
muse sings of being slain, being consumed by his


love’s flame while getting laid, in the same slavish,
selfish way moths do, eating through several funereal veils,
as though they were layers of cake, to escape
death’s rattling, rotting cave decorated with tasteless decay, the
marriage-bed itself too often too much a grave, the
bedchamber a burial ground couples labour to repatriate to
former occupants haunting it by night as by day,


dutiful beauty, innocuous bitch accomplice, she knows well how
her sister prefers, instead, to be licked head-to-toe-to-breast-to-clit, honoured
beneath her nipples, beneath her own whispers which translate
desire’s ache into a chorus of ‘Yes!’ That way,
wherever she honeymoons, wherever the deed takes place, she
saves face getting head, and little sister too young
yet to get it herself, can join in, as


well, moonlighting as mistress to the same groom whose
lips on her loins their secret shares, their silenced
laughter heating the cool room with its cruel joke
about the repercussions of which neither cares, for who
will ever know, who was even there? Only those
two girls, and you, of course, dear reader, willing
witness to such profane wickedness and debauch, voyeur pervert


poring over this filth as if it were litter
costumed in literature. Really, though, who even gives a
shit in an age so corrupt as this one
is, one where violence out-grosses flesh in sales? Innocence
long ago was not lost, but tossed, thrown out,
gotten rid of by those whose aim always has
been to experience what loss never can be replaced.