Wyrd

Like most living things
I seek out warmth.
The concubines of Diablo
are just as conscious of
their femininity
as any spinster, wife, mother.
 
Why else do my breasts appear full,
when only ash is left?
My sisters and I are appetite made flesh.
Why else do our buttocks contract and relax
though no blood flows in them,
just devil's wine  
that comes out as pinpricks
like pomegranate seeds?
 
This cunny is a penny flipped
upward from Hell.
Its copper sheen reflects
the lights of damnation.
I beg of you, probe with your fingers
the exquisite design,
the soul of sex in bas relief
on bald, plump lips.
 
The sluts of Antichrist's harem
are wreathed in silk
so fine it isn't there.
Come stroke it and compare
it with what little pubic hair
still tufts a dead pelvis.
 
We sisters link our cunts,
pelvic Mahjong tiles,
and bend and fold
in gruesome mummery;
a mockery
of conjugated bliss
emerges from our lips,
the skin as red as good and evil fruit.