Flesh Weaver (Becoming Damned)

Saint of the damned -
got to hack
or slice
or carve,
to whisk the blood
and salivate
at the thought.

Obey iron hammers
which force the cortex -
to crush
to smash
vanilla bone,
thrill of a kill
making spiders wince,
turning misery
into chronic art.

Line the blood sheaths
dry them in bunches -
for cocaine
or alcohol,
for stunted glory
and variables.
Depend on hate
of an invisible slant eyed crew,
ride tonight
into a venomous maelstrom.

One Two Three
into Two One Three -
led through confetti arches
to a nailbombed bed,
plateau terrible,
a drunk stop.
In darkness bitter hell
soft boughs of love
twist rabid.

Sand boy
troll of carnivals -
hunt in secret
amongst cocktail stalks
and gutters.
Defile trust earned
macabre prince,
the sucking sound of stabbing
mantra of the mad.

Turtle shell -
a devil's head face down
in guts and leather,
in sickening paradise
of razor wings
and yellowing eyes.
Infinite pains
stirring like cancer
for clotted orgasm.

But nothing else
is to be kindled
for such vessel of depravity -
the Seventeen Known
will smother the ballads
and wailing guitar sonnets.
Feathers and dust
gone to soil,
human grains
to unbalanced Death...

@Steven Francis poems 2009