The Word

I wrote a single word upon his lips;
One Word--
--Vengeance.

And I kissed that Word,
worked it upon my tongue,
forcing it past his objections--
wetting the interior of his mouth,
and shoving it down his throat.

In my eyes he saw Hell;
In my face he saw will;
and in my hands he felt the force,
of what I had become.
Held the name of it with his fingertips,
and whispered it out loud--
--Evil.

"Are those snakes upon you?"
Serpents, my love;
Serpents with knowledge of your ills,
and your preference for pretty young things--
Firm tits under your hands,
round asses between your knees;
Wet mouths dripping with hunger,
and overt drug-induced pleas to fuck on the kitchen counter.

"And what are you, so darkened on this diatribe?"
Me? I am disillusionment with heavy breasts.
I am the weapon in sexuality.
I am the fear of intellectual aggressiveness.
I am the undelicate, the weighted, the unrest,
the opened-eyed antithesis to morality and concept.
I am the voodoo poet, the neurotic sex symbol,
the reverence for the systemic failure
of your little self-important world.
I am the Devil come to sit with you for lunch,
and talk about your house plants.

I am the one with the Word.
I am the one who has stored up that Word,
and given birth to the Idea of the Word--
I have taken the Word,
and molded it,
and fired it,
and breath'd life into it.
I have become the Word--
The Idea;
The moment when the Idea becomes the Word,
and forces itself upon your ears and lips and eyes.

And I am forcing it past his lips,
ending conversations and confessions--
Pleas and rebukes-- ending with the Word.
His eyes are rolling back in his head;
he is twirling his neck from side to side,
wide-eyed, mouth working, tongue flapping;
But I am now consumed in the Word,
coming out all sweet and dripping--
and with sticky fingers,
trailing along his shirt collar,
I leave him with the loss of the Word,
bleeding out onto the table.

And I am Vengeance,
with the Word firmly written upon her lips,
and a kiss too unspeakable to ever want.