The Love of a Succubus 


    The unholy way
     that her impish hair strand
     feathered my nipple
     sequestered my prodigal
     heart.
     For only demon eyes
     can glean through the darkness
     with such tricky clarity
     as to rend skin apart
     like so much Christmas wrap
     in the hands of a child
     and gut my fish belly,
     placing my immortal soul in
     escrow.
     This domain is a perfect hell,
     where breathy vows
     will never see the light.
     Where vampires have soft necks,
     dimpled spine arches,
     and that cavalier lower flesh
     that denim craves to cling to.
     Here, the soft stifling pressure
     of her archangel's breasts
     impale my Jesus side
     and I choke pitch black air
     at the jasmine scent of her
     netherwordly fruit.
     She is my pit fiend Madonna,
     no other woman has ever
     looked as classical
     giving head.
     This hellcat purrs restlessly
     in my weakling's arms
     to my sublime content,
     until the vulcanized flesh
     is torn asunder by the
     reprisals of dawn,
     and as her brimstone tears
     wash away the last pebbles
     of my manhood
     I understand
     lovesongs.

 

The Poetry of Lillyth After Heaven and Earth