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Women crouch on bended knee
carpet-burned
from worshipping the phallus.
They are hollowed mouth,
the acrid taste of soap
washes away words
worshipping the phallus.
Women are the sacrificial womb
split by the fucking phallus
stretched
she shrieks out gratitude of
the next generation
who suck her youth away.
Women herded in concentrated camps
in a crisis
the crisis blood of womanhood
embracing with terror
thigh-hugging skirts bone-crushing heels.
Feels razor-shaved legs
shocked slick and smooth
to slide in to sex moves
slipped and skinned
to slide in and out
unnoticed.
Cracked wide and torn
for the confident cock
that begs the motherly touch
craves the sickly kiss that comforts like milk
and the caustic burn of love that poisons
baited hated breath.

Sacrifice

That hot summer
when the railings sang with the heat
and the children dragged dusty feet
through the house,
the lonely lady is burned alive,
somewhere around midnight
the witch’s hour, it was.
Her crisp fingers
curse the world
beneath the tree with its hooked branches
beneath the moon and its sickly glow
beneath his open window
as the curtains flew in
a ghostly flap and a wave.
Her eyes drank the flames,
they licked her face and she swallowed them down
drowning in the bloody heat
and he cannot sleep
and he cannot sleep
he sees her smile and he hears her scream
and he cannot sleep
he hears the crackle crackle
and he cannot sleep
he cannot breathe with his ribs so clenched
he douses the flames with his own hot sweat
and he cannot sleep
he cannot dream and he hears her scream
he buries her bones under his pillow
and he cannot sleep and his death is slow.