Work Text:
"There are limits. Can't all three dance."
I remember when your false hands
wrapped my waist and offered slim chance,
laughing through our teeth.
Off you strut, with new wife glowing,
two by two (and one is growing);
I, alone, remain, unshowing
what within I keep.
You have her; and she, another;
her, I love as would a brother;
but I was made to love no other.
I tuck away the sheet.
Of all the songs on all the nights!
I should have thought to set this right
because I want with all my might
for you to find your peace.
Perhaps it's easy being dead.
Perhaps my brains could flow, so red.
Perhaps I never saw you wed.
Perhaps is such a cheat.
Fuck you. Maybe it's what I want,
to have a demon preen and flaunt
his lust for me. Watch, how he taunts -
though you won't ever see.
Aha! You're him! He's you! You're her!
You're dungeon and you're my master.
Are you satin sheets or plastic fur?
Victor or Vicki?
The games are done. I've had enough.
I'm going to fuck and make it rough.
You'll love it. I will be enough.
And you will drown in me.
I dreamed I died under the water.
I thought I jumped and wasn't caught, or
danced the final danse macabre,
but you won't let me sleep.
I loosed a madman in my brain,
I hung a fortnight on a chain,
I could have died aboard a train,
but I cannot bear release.
Morning finds Madonna, stately,
watching as I make my shaking
hands obey me. Favours making
bedfellows so brief.
On stolen time I live, a man
who fucked with death and came again.
She says she knows what kind I am:
The spectre at the feast.