A Cross Stitched Majesty

Another one for the one I shouldn't, and didn't, really.

You have done the dead deed,

Rocked me hazed, sung me stillborn,

Bayed onto the cobwebbed womb of my own mortal ease, 

Eastern of the Godly lantern - 

I have hoped the yeast-rise of my own flat desires,

Plumped only by the chemical lord

Earthing me, still and lame

Like a milked-out cattle preach.

I have wooed you out on my lips,

Cooked my neck until the cold, pink,

Raw teeth marks eat at me whole. 

Jekyll-ing you like a landmark, post

Dead, post life, post you, onto a land mine

Hollowed out by the dare, the dare, the dare

I dared. The inflammation damnation

Spelled onto the cap your chin, is the black mammal

I rear a worded curse; how many people will we hurt

If we dared do the daring romp of my beating, dared-out, sped heart? 

The rich metal prince of my hips -

O, you know you are He, you golden, inflammatory, passionate God!

You see the tightening tide with which I soldier

My forlorn, meek Babushka skin!

But you do not see the thrombosis I swilk 

When you are not my solid beck-and-call

And I am uprooted from the harrow You. 

You do not know my Cherub cheeks call you in them -

My pod, one layer left and all milked-out, is 

Stone-red with the cold waiting I do of you.

It is a silly squalid need,

This little harbouring, docking at sunset

For the time you go home to your Vows, your little Life. 

That I am a puppy-fat, fitted roll of two:

The Who I Am and the Who They Make Me,

The preservation of oneself that I am not impended by -

This is the soliloquy I make of it, You are just a divine subtext,

A majesty of a device, and this is how it eases.