Insanely twisted
plastic memories rest
in the pages of infinite night,
where gods lie in endless slumber.
Rest in the soft arms of Demeter-
tender, white flesh that begs knowing in
the inky blackness of endless sky.
Fire brand stars dance in sheets of midnight-
black satin, matching pillowcases
with the slick, sickly feel of cheap nylon,
in faerie rings formed round the sun.
Steal the child of Earth, run to the land
of blackness, where tired hearts have no rest;
A sweet young girl, history's first Lolita-
carried away by her mother's brother.
Seduced into ancient darkness,
where lie in wait tamptions, sweet fruit
to tickle the tounge of a young goddess.
Scratchy sounds in the dead of night, an
old man, with whiskers and burning eyes
and skin dried to a crust by aeons
of Luna's caresses. With touches,
most private, no leave her alone, don't.
Cries to a loving mother, the mother
to another, rescinded, but betrayed
by a pomegranate, cursed seeds
that would hold Persephone in hell.
Mother, betray us not- winter in
the hour that holds us to the ground, sleep
away times that your daughter departs.
Demeter cries for the blood of the young
to soften winter's ground, to wake the
sleeping nymphs, to revive her heart for
Sweet Persephone soon to come.