She has a shotgun plushness
Which I am pushed to suffer
All succour’s greasy lushness
Earthmother’s dirtsmothered cousin. Emulsive
Her blood-crusted fastness. My propulsive blood
Phantom-peopled.
A love like a rack.
The steeple of her rancid blood
My thudding love sheep dips; her sweet’s fleetness
I long to make repeat.
It’s like someone made you in a lab
To my specifications, according to plan
Sad, counting what I have
Cold as a corpse on a slab, torpid and bad.
A love which hacks, packed with taxing expectations
Which rasps and barks like a victim of a gas raid.
Alchemisland 
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