The dead of night offered a dream,
and I accepted
There were dismembered bodies
beneath us;
and, covered in their pulp,
we fucked as if possessed
by jet-fuel flames
Ignoring the sounds of young children
being eaten alive,
your continual demand of ‘don’t stop’
held my empty heart at full attention
There was nothing I wouldn’t do
for you
But then I woke up,
and the shame of daylight was crushing
I cried when I eventually told you
about the depravity of my subconscious
You laughed as if you had been the one
chewing raw flesh off those babies
When you spoke, however, I understood
that you were no monster
“Dreams and nightmares are just
our imaginations rolling dice.”
Then it took an hour of us arguing
before I felt somewhat sane again
On your recommendation, I am now
writing about the experience
And, though I meant to say no more,
this prose refuses to look complete
without a few fingers caught in the door
So, dear reader, do not forgive me just yet;
instead, consider the vile views
which I’ve placed in your brain
And know I firmly believe that art
which doesn’t disturb you on occasion
may as well be a lover
who never cums
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