Satan's Beard

The evil thing about your face
must be that beard tickling my ear,

mouthing indecencies. Must you
be such a brutal man, whisper

all of your fantasies to me?
Your lightest word contains a Hell:
a feather to my testicles—
grit inside an oyster shell;

each follicle’s a little fork
in my behind—if you’ll forgive
so obvious a metaphor
for love. What can I do? I live

in such a state of horrible
anxiety that you might shave,
I’ve stopped shaving myself and I 
have hidden all the razors—save

one: this one I keep hidden
inside my tongue. Now, how shall I
reward you for those little forks?
Shall I recite some poetry

or fuck your face ridiculous?

Memorial to a Chicken

It really makes no difference to me now,
What kind of instruments go in, or how

The stuffings left inside your bony carcass
Are secretly consumed in hours of darkness.

When I go spelunking with a spoon
And crack a rib or two for lack of room

Maneuvering into the cavity
Which held your heart, don’t complain to me:

Consider the condition of your head,
Had I picked up my shovel, dear, instead.