To the boy I met at the Cathedral in Year 1

Darkly at Cuthbert’s head, the boyshrunken, like rotted fruit
grinning wildly

ignited between my thighs the Leviathan,

unleashing a grumble of maggots inside.

A soulless boy, made from Gothic stone,
he pulled me adrift with the blackened tips of his rotted,
tainted hands.

He carved hell into my doughy flesh, chest heaving with sardonic breath,
sainted tongue
swirling sickly song and sewing incantations to my bed.

With bloody teeth and carnal lips, he the butcher had no rest.

Ravished on lavish silk, I relished in repent for our
disgracing God.