My cherub, most surely the end, is
A smile somewhat different;
Moreover, he's ideatively knotting
The middle silence off the wings that I'm not.
My cherub, most surely the christening,
Boils up that future mine always spat
Since breathing first my seconds started
Promised to a different heaven - should be mine the middle
Knotting the navel - he'd say if I were
A shadow of my steps as never a child. Myself I've known
Imaginary a hole hung by a different everyday inferno
Prescribed but symptomatically,
And breathe in me the other angels - naked:
I crucified them once in prophylactic ivory,
Then rarely took a silent laugh at them.
They bled eternally. Just raped them all,
One at a time, to know I am...
But he, that cherub mine, most surely nothing,
Keeps feeding soul and blood and semen mine for supper
To swell the naked angels' bowels. Then always pieces me together
From scraps divine a plebeian.
My cherub, most surely a harpy,
I am.