Ivory Tusks
APR 22, 2025
bored of smiling to fragrant lilies
and succumbing to rotten sores that peel at the seams
where the lioness makes her nest, and the roar becomes so delightful
it makes the poor beggar cum and drip blood
where the eye should be.
I found it tasteful, hearing that screech, the one that came
out of the darkness where Satan once kept his own child safe
inside the arms of Eve; the womb of Lilith
Where there was once a love so bittersweet
it made any rich man cry and beg for more
because just one life isn’t enough
and because the mammoth rose again, or the Tasmanian Tiger
who now make their beds in peace because they are protected there
or at least the mythology says it is so:
keep the lie in toll, keep the beggar
on his knees, keep the rich man tucked away
in his mansion, filled with the hairless pelts of Elephants and ivory tusks
safe on a mantelpiece, where the soul lives now
where the spirit was once richer than any man with a bed of gold.
And a songbird sings of it all, while she strums elegantly
on her golden lire, decorum of the same kind of ivory, strung with nylon
and the song hits the drum of the ear
like the ovary when it bursts into blood
and the woman is no longer, and
without the uterus she tries to speak
but only Devilish lunacy comes from that face
and still, the roar makes the old beggar cum and drip blood
where the eye wants to be; kept sacred but it is no longer
there.
