An oldie I found, which I am revising
We are servants of the bloody goddess;
one who emerged, drawn by hippocampus,
from the white froth, salt-scented
that edged the stinging sea.
We serve the goddess who was a gift,
dual edged; who rode in, balanced
on a skeletal clam, hovering on the
soft foam detritus of rotted fish
the last protein remnants
of drowned men. In Chaucer
she is standing, spine straight
on a bower of corpses who came
willingly, with their eyes open,
knowing what she was, underneath
all that soft, white flesh. They could smell
the dead-fish stench,
her perfume, wafting up from between
well-turned legs; see the flakes
of bone lodged in her waving hair,
and that smile, downturned,
so innocent, that hints at malice.
They ignored, as we do, all those
warning signs, the intuitions, megrims.
Is it any wonder that the symptoms
are the same? Our hearts, sped up
to bursting, rapid breathing,
sweaty palms, all of those embarrassing
fluids, and still, we call out for it,
ignoring the consequences,
ignoring the bones, our hands
outstretched and grasping,
hungry for a climax.