These white flowers,

such delicate, perfected


raised in the airless

white light

of a glasshouse:

their scentless perfection

is obscene.

Tell me what they know of nature.

That there are no pungent

parts to a woman?

that she hides no

matted, reeking troughs

where desires lie strewn,

sweetly decaying?

I’ve seen cold dark moss,

dead moths,

flayed wings like

fallen petals

ravaged by whirlwinds,

mud strafed virgins,

cadavers collapsing into formaldehyde.

I’ve embraced the

grime and snot

of flea-infested beauty.

In this age

of sanitized madness,

would you still cradle

your beloved’s corpse?

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