Go ahead, Darling, make that face you always make

when I say I don't mind the thought

of my own mug coated in writhing maggots

or the cave-in of my chest,

its dry gray organs slipping out beneath the cage.

What does it matter

if you want to spend $400 on the coat

or eat off the floor or drop out of college?

Soon enough you'll have no money, no worries,

no mind. Who cares?

Darling, scrunch up your face

so I can see your skull's central cave,

your eyes gone to the crows.

Why wait for insanity's permission

when now we can take the mud in our hands

and make love to the dead - how they need it! -

and cheer the clumps of us that go bravely off,

the ones we flush away to hell: Farewell!

Why pretend God's Victorian?

Why suck and not swallow?

Anna, this good life is wild with stench,

thick with filth and death

that's not beneath us, but hovers

just in front like a gorgeous moldy carrot.

Bite it, I dare you,

then let's drink black wine

from that glass the dog just licked,

not vow in our secret places

to silently die of thirst