The Final Blow-Job; A True History

Strangled thoughts of blasphemy;  
soldier boys
on ragged-bone ships  
like maniacs in manacles    
lost at sea
 
leather lips, whips and chains    
pierced together, arranged maniacal  
 
as you inhale the oncoming Apocalypse    
slithering
in the alleyway
like a hungry lion shadow    

just beyond your delicate eyebrows  
just behind your window pane  
just beyond your frame of reference  

as naked fists  
punch a hole in the wall    
to spray the wall with blood  
and grab you

twenty-eight steps from a padded room  
or years
that likely represent  
your flaccid soul    

in the third-eye of God's
holy doom  
as you beam forth
like a third-hand Lamborghini  
in stiletto heals  

a worn-out perky whore
with daffodil tits    
slumped in a state of degradation  
slinking below the surface – like a mockery  
as people wave and say good bye  

while Satan winks
between the trees  
puffing shadows on picture frames  
as all of your velvety blood vessels    
tighten and pop  

and bite into your thighs
like poison snakes  
in cider dreams
gone amiss    
on purple winter flesh  

as icy-cold demons flutter through your hair  
to kiss your broken skin    

sent by a divine wind    
pressed into your purple palm    
like a cupcake – with sprinkles  

because you wanted
to fuck
my angel eyes into the dirt
 
but the emerald city
was always beyond your reach  
and the stairway to heaven    
was always barred    
with a sign that read, no sluts aloud    

and your victory performance    
was canceled  
well before the sunrise  
because you forgot  
the most important part;  
my name is Beelzebub  

and no amount of lace
could ever conceal
your shame    
because the party for your inner-slave    
was canceled    
by three men who pissed on your face
and filled your ass
with semen  

and the kisses they smeared
on your inner-ghost  
gnawed and gnarled at your heels    
and coiled round your ankles
and throat  
to drag you to your doom  

as my swollen tongue, blinked
with brutal winks  
to fuck you
with a legion  
of happy tongue circles

yet, we grind your filthy flesh    
in a haze
of perfect disappointment  
 
grind it, like a stale cigarette
extinguished
in a dirty ashtray

You; the perfect bullseye
of disappointment  
singed by rotten tongues and the leathery wing
of demons    

Devoured whole
like your rotten bedpost    
and all your fickle dreams    
melted
like soft cheese    
burned
by a blow-torch  

You; the evaporated wing of a powerless moth  
slowly dissolved  
into a sexless pile of mush  

with no anti-venom
and no cure    
 
You; the hard-boiled soul
the cheap rubber cork  
that I pop
and bounce off the party ceiling  
like a plastic stopper
in a cheap bottle of Champaign  

just to remind you  
that I am queen of the night  

and that you
are just the dust
that blows along the pavement

when I blow a kiss