Roarer, I Claim the Pit

The path beaten

is blown up.

—You blew it.


Tightrope walking,

fear of falling, thrill of

slow-motion, guilt-weighted

flesh-stripping tumble

down down

the Pit of Soul.



Loose the chill

hand of nightmare

—and shake it.

Cross hell to climb heaven.


Mother Said: Fat. Retarded. Demon. (Throw 2/3 Away)

Before your wedding,

Sister Mine, let us go

to the tearing juncture

where Bacchae meet the Bard.

I, streaked crimson, have learned

to sheathe the knife.

You, mesmer moon, huntress

and mom-to-be, may

do anything and everything

with the sweet, spying Youth

who approaches and is Horned.