An inquisitor’s dream!

Succubae fail to wait for evening
they alight on every fertile breath
can this be chance?
red pubic hair on gesso
becomes idol
a standard by which to measure
or a priestly pleasure
brandy bottle lengthens, oddly
hunger shortens tongue
come to me, my lover
come to me, my freezing legs
Toes thaw before the flame
hair now grows unwanted
wait, do not shave
as warmth becomes your slave
my weird, my wool
my fingers radiate what morning’s given
fingers racing to the flame
skin dies, ignored
pale, shaven, veined
posing for Bosch in final frame