POEM III. THE SWEET MONSTER.
On the verge of insane and obscene, 
In the very last fragment of conscious,
I"m inventing the eighth deadly sin -
So disgusting, so painful, so luscious, 
All the jealous delusions of mind,
Fears and fury are twisted together,
Haunting thoughts that are tightly entwined, 
That are toxic and weightless like feather...
It"s delirium, nighing so close,
It"s despair, paralizing perception.
It"s that ruthless, two-faced man I chose,
He keeps poisoning me with deception, 
Ready both for betrayal and rape,
He is virtuous in name, he is spiteful,
And I wait for his shot in my nape -
But he does make this torture delightful. 
If you love me, then love me to death,
As carnality screams for submission, -
Or forbid me to take a slight breath,
And I won"t breathe without your permission.
Turn the butterflies into the worms,
Make your own plan for second seduction,
Freeze the flowers with sudden snowstorms -
You"re so sickly enjoying destruction.
It"s the most nightmarish fairytale,
Where your madness is like an infection
In this sultry air we both inhale,
So that I cannot find a protection. 
Holy God!... Saint Avertin"s disease,
Saint John"s evil, my little damnation... 
Kill me now when I"m down on my knees,
Maybe it"s your last chance for salvation
And you just cannot come to a halt:
Little devils you brought still devour,
And it will be your freakiest fault,
If you dare to break their rise to power.