She’s drinking the martyrs, the great carnivore,

bearing her lover of death for the son.

The scavenger husband and Babylon’s whore

grapple together and baby makes one.

Sekhmet’s revenge is precise, on time, and scarlet.

Pray morning and eve to appease her blood love.

Chaacmol’s bowl holds the still beating bone.

The boy cannot grasp the mystery of harlots.

Uncreation sucks flesh inside to dissolve.

He kicks some assault on his well tempered home,

a sissy in the circle of predestined dance.

He falls with abandon and feels without sense.

The lioness hunts what the father will kill.

Clasp hands, bow heads, give thanks for free will.