i. It’s all in the contours of your death

Other faces silly spaces all disgraces
wash their mouths out with lip-sync soap
and dioramas of plague victims decomposing
line the aisles where you wish to wed your cancer.
Some chance; what hope is left
is lost in a whirl of hyperbole and wishes
too cowardly to show you their names.

I feel your womb in my hands,
delicate, fragile, succinctly fine.

I feel your pleasure in my disembarkation,
and fill you with my plague.

ii. Communism, Che, is nationalism without the racism

You and I grow inside you
and we get bigger by the slowest of darkest days,
feeling, swelling, obsidian.
A sky somewhere is blackening
but ours smells of thunder,
sweet oxygen burning, incenstuous in our delirium.

We are equal; our decisions are made together,
and our lives will end as one,
the us in you and the me in we.
The cancer in your womb will give birth to my Antichrist.

iii. I’m not dying, i’m dead, sir

You are my fragility,
my incompetency in fact,
my fallibility in logic and reason.
You are the tunnel at the end of the light
and the gun from the bullet.
You fade like the black storms of your pupils
as you die and I live and You and I die inside you,
my plague, my victim, my cancer, my God.

Pray, tell me what it feels like to disassociate.
I am so tired of the real of this.

iv. Jesus was a homo; his last night he invites twelve burly men to his place for sandwiches and foot-rubs

The cancer in your womb
is the plague to spread across the world,
the ultimate joke of betrayal and belief.
This hand made the world,
and this hand taketh away.

This is your body
which is given for me.
This is my cancer
which is given for you.

Plug the plague and misbehave
for I will reap the corpses and hallelujah in Hell.