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The Whore of Bethlehem
Her perfume is the charred-black ghost
of subterranean brimstone,
her dress a peaches-and-cream snub
to modesty and mother’s milk.
The silken attitude she wears would make
a prophet warn for years
of just such sweet daemons.
Only whores and mothers, all,
the women of the Testaments. Leant
in the doorways of the troubled soul
as prostitutes of ghettoes where
the Ghost has given up.
I see her, my embodiment of this,
and feel her odd power. To be ugly and tempting,
serene and chaotic, a slap
to ordered masculinity: the whore
of Bethlehem.
of subterranean brimstone,
her dress a peaches-and-cream snub
to modesty and mother’s milk.
The silken attitude she wears would make
a prophet warn for years
of just such sweet daemons.
Only whores and mothers, all,
the women of the Testaments. Leant
in the doorways of the troubled soul
as prostitutes of ghettoes where
the Ghost has given up.
I see her, my embodiment of this,
and feel her odd power. To be ugly and tempting,
serene and chaotic, a slap
to ordered masculinity: the whore
of Bethlehem.
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