Consummatum est






                                                As we make love in the distant twilight of time

                                                                Your rotting body merges with mine

                                                                In an obscene, unholy communion

                                                Of disintegrating flesh.

                                                                We are bedecked and decorated

                                                                With decaying floral garlands;

                                                Your cracked, white skull, flaunting a cadaverous mask,

                                                                Nuzzles my willing mouth, while

                                                                Your rapacious, long-tailed talons

                                                Viciously scratch my bleeding, contorted limbs.



                                                We lie here in this deep, filthy grave,

                                                                Open to the hard, glittering stars above

                                                                Where dying, dust-choked planets

                                                Circle without hope, lost in boundless space.

                                                                Here we slowly squirm: writhing and twisting

                                                                To honour the damned, and to always, always

                                                Profane the wretched, still-living hordes.

                                                                But yes! How we honour the eternal damned!

                                                                With our ferocious simulations of ecstasy;

                                                Our desolate, discordant, salacious litanies of hate.



                                                Oh yes! You are my ideal lover,

                                                                So fearsome and so ferocious. I love

                                                                The slick ooze of blood from under

                                                Your thorn-sharp, cock-eyed tiara.

                                                                Yes, you, not any perfidious angel I may have met,

                                                                Are my only desire; you the emaciated epitome of dissgust.

                                                You, who say you have delved so deep to

                                                                Discover forbidden, secret things beyond understanding.

                                                                What a delight! To kiss your haggard, rutted ribs,

                                                To violate your intimate, parted furrow, replete with sores.





                                                Now, the failing light bathes this stinking midden

                                                                In a sickly, phosphorescent hue

                                                                As I stare into your pale, yellow eyes,

                                                And then in abject, obsequious, fawning servility

                                                                Close those delicate, bluish lids forever,

                                                                Thinking: “Oh, my sister, are you flesh of my flesh?”

                                                Even though you are repulsed by my putrid, foetid breath,

                                                                Let me, your swathed prey, feel

                                                                Your agonised wrenching contractions,

                                                As you convulse and turn beneath me.


                                                Above, in the dark, on the surface,

                                                                Where obelisks and headstones lean askance,

                                                                Beneath a leprous moon, obscured by cloud-wracks,

                                                Furtive shapes, semi-human proles, lope

                                                                Towards our mildewed sanctuary. Then

                                                                They stop, and stooping low, scoop up loose detritus

                                                To throw, in handfuls down onto us as we lie below;

                                                                Cascades of muddy filth from toxic spoil-heaps.

                                                                Slowly the slurry covers us both; in our bitterness

                                                We are not fit for this, or any, living world.  


                                                I want you to let me lick your shivering hole

                                                                Please…please let me ruffle your greasy, matted hair

                                                                Entwined with fibrous, vermiform horrors.

                                                And then, in my delirium, you will smile at me

                                                                With gaping teeth, through broken bleeding lips.

                                                                Perhaps your questing, cold and lolling tongue

                                                Will find its way into my eager mouth,

                                                                And, as your tumescent palp caresses my neck,

                                                                My own body will begin to liquefy, exuding

                                                Viscid, amber globules between your dirty breasts.





                                                Now, beneath my trembling hand, the ground, defiled

                                                                By our poisonous secretions shifts uneasily as,

                                                                Locked in each others arms, wreathed

                                                In threads and webs, we sink down even further;

                                                                Down into our sodden, rain-soaked trench, where

                                                                The splintered crumbling remains of ancient caskets

                                                (Once resting places for tortured martyrs)

                                                                Settle about our soiled and ragged cerements.

                                                                So, lewd sister, we shudder in unison at last,

                                                And you whisper: “Please don’t cry, this may be our salvation…”






AC  Evans

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