Eight

Stripped to the gills
Our bride
An ornate, divine pacifier
Pinkish blood
Our bride’s Mother
Gurgling saltwater through her fangs
Spewing from her fucking bones
A berserk totem
Marching in long strides
Decimating the countryside
Poisoning the wells
Enslaving the locals.
What more can I say?
Love? Corruption? Insanity?
I don’t know, and I’m not sure I want to know.
(The telepathic, interstellar plant life that I’ve been talking to, and the ancient, 10-foot corpses that I raised,
I’m sure, will save us at the last moment;
So nobody panic, okay?).