Smoke And Mirrors

THE QUEEN'S SALON.

(An interjection here: my wife awoke,

scared by an evil dream. "You hated me.

You brought these women home I didn't know,

but they knew me, and then we had a fight,

and after we had shouted you stormed out.

You said you'd find a girl to fuck and eat."

This scares me just a little. As we write

we summon little demons. So I shrug.)

The handcuffs are removed. He's left alone.

The hangings are red velvet, then they lift,

reveal the Queen. We recognise her face,

the woman we saw on the VCR.

"The world divides so sweetly, neatly up

into the feeder-folk, into their prey."

That's what she says. Her voice is soft and sweet.

Imagine honey-ants: the tiny head,

the chest, the tiny arms, the tiny hands,

and after that the bloat of honey-swell,

the abdomen enormous as it hangs

translucent, made of honey, sweet as lust.

The QUEEN has quite a perfect little face,

her breasts are pale, blue-veined; her nipples pink;

her hands are white. But then, below her breasts

the whole swells like a whale or like a shrine,

a human honey-ant, she's huge as rooms,

as elephants, as dinosaurs, as love.

Her flesh is opalescent, and she calls

poor WEBSTER to her. And he nods and comes.

(She must be over twenty-five feet long.)

She orders him to take off all his clothes.

His cock is hard. He shivers. He looks lost.

He moans "I'm harder than I've ever been".

Then, with her mouth, she licks and tongues his cock…

We linger here. The language of the eye

becomes a bland, unflinching, blowjob porn,

(her lips are glossy, and her tongue is red).

HOLD on her face. We hear him gasping "Oh.

Oh baby. Yes. Oh. Take it in your mouth."

And then she opens up her mouth, and grins,

and bites his cock off

Spurting blood pumps out

into her mouth. She hardly spills a drop.

We never do pan up to see his face,

just her. It's what they call the money shot.

Then, when his cock's gone down, and blood's congealed,

we see his face. He looks all dazed and healed.

Some feeders come and take him out of there.

Down in the pens he's chained beside McBride.

Deep in the mud lie carcasses picked clean

who grin at them and dream of being soup.

Poor things.

We're almost done.

We'll leave them there.

CUT to some lonely doorway, where A TRAMP

has three cold fingers up ANOTHER TRAMP,

they're starving but they fingerfuck like hell,

and underneath the layers of old clothes

beneath the cardboard, newspaper and cloth,

their genders are impossible to tell.

PAN UP:

to watch a butterfly go past.