Whitechapel

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

silent footprints
dressed in pain
hide in the street
 
cobble stones and brine
 
while horses that are
whipped by
clouds
 
haunches rigid
hide in the shadows.
she sees and holds her hands,
dreaming of hooves burning into her.
 
her desire pierces
electrified walls
as she licks the
 
straw men
in flames. writhing creatures neon comedians
wrapped around her for her to punish
 
she swims with them  now
in black puddle light-show boiling,
shot through with red and white
the glass cracking
the glass that houses them sheared
serving sliced memories of her loss.
 
now welcoming the maw of sleep
shot into the night and
crashing beneath the moon
 
what came before
just an embellishment
of the pagan desires tingling her tongue
split and sensitive offering up taste and pleasure.

By Peter Marra

www.angelferox.com

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