What guards me in these rust-ridden hours? Only scabrous wraith-whores with snow-burned hands, verses like flecks of spittle at the corners of their lips, clutching at my ears with choleric tongues, transparent hips grinding against me, begging to have their fortunes told. Their yellowed limbs run like yolks over mine, (divine jaundice!) and all their eyes are the secret blue of the drowned.
They crush Tiresiac breasts against me, whispering of how they were once men, before the flood, and their pretty red cocks pointed east, east, east. The wind and the sun slid over them like slick mouths, and the world was awash with their seed. Of course, before they grew those primordial beards, they were women and their ovaries thumped in them like little hearts--they have switched so many times they cannot remember the original regalia. Every seven years the mating snakes appear, rattling out the old songs.
These tits, they confess, are only theirs by happenstance--they will give them over to me, if I want them--they long to feed a mouth, any mouth, to catch the thin white stream of dystopian milk. Like old aunts they purse my lips, running fingers over my teeth, pushing moon-slippery breasts into my throat until my jaw fractures without sound, smothered by this colorless flesh. They beg me to suckle at the psoriatic nipples, they stroke my hair, croon, weep, whisper huskily that they will come back when they are men again and will I still open my pretty red mouth?
These are my dead dears, my hermaphroditic sisters, hunched over my limbs and plying my tongue with oracular sweets, the prophecies of the eyeless breast, fluid augur gushing from the womb, wetting the walls with portents. They tell the lie that they love their brother-selves, but at midnight the clock forces confession, and their chorus hisses through the ceiling:
Only when we are mothers can we rape you with smiles painted on our bellies. Only when we are daughters can we fill up your womb with honey and mortar, and make you heavy with our slattern-koans.