Nervin Poem by Sebastian Priotese

You dress up your nicobar-goddess with wings
of stained glass, in corals, in shells,
in lilac stems and shake off the sidereal
aurora from her nocturnal butterflies,
mascaraed over with Sephora.
But when she's ready to maim you in her embrace,
you get away, for the mere thought of her hands
going through your fur sets it on fire.
The metallic mistletoe of her breath cutting
through your gums.
You hold her dear knowing she's a cathedral
of phantasmagorias in whose lightning rod you strike
like a thunder too drunk on ether, a byzantine
monstrosity you've built from sleep,
thus nothingness.
But it still would be nicer to sip her post-sleep
perfume in this useless, joke of a reality,
while she strokes your canines and the
tethers of a wolf's spine you'd place
as offering at her feet.