the blood poet
and his queen have
a sixteen year old
stiletto called
precious
she whips debutantes
and lectures
on rules of
safety when
mixing latex and
leather
her toy a boy
purity from the pope
stares shamelessly
at intrigues
bouncing breasts
mouths her name
repeating mantra-like
conjuring blues
sonnets
gothic tombs
and the oldest magik
precious is no
witchy woman or
eagles claw
but she’ll
cut
where he bleeds
drink freely
lay waste
soul and heart
and remember to bring
the towels
J. Masuda © 2004