Ignorant brutes,
you have stormed the Louvre,
yanked the David from his pedestal,
shattered his body to make cat litter,
plastered a photo of his once living face on the box,
and called it art.
Your cruelty bores me.
Your clumsy attempts at profundity
elicit my pity.
But your blasphemy
against the god
who dwelled within that sacred stone,
your murder
of the One I love
is the reason
I will crush you
into dust.
Counterfeit queen,
now that your hellish reign is ending
do not dare enter my dreams again
to beg for my mercy.
Had you only wounded me
I might grant it.
Masks.
Off.
Under the luminescent skin
of every goddess
lives
a lioness
who rips out the throats
of those
who dare harm
her beloved ones.
Artless, whining woman, know this.
I saw my love strangled by your greedy, grasping hands.
My magic has resurrected him.
Now, I turn my attention
to you.
Run, or
I will show you
the mercy
you showed him.
My mercy lives in
the minute I give
you to flee
before I burn
your vile kingdom
to the ground.
Leave,
or die
crushed in the rubble
of your pagan temple as it
falls.
When you are gone,
I will spread your lies
your tin crown
your mask
your corsets
your false teeth
your stained underthings
on the sidewalk
so every passerby
knows and despises
the fraud
who dared
try make a slave
of my
god.
Burlesque Press 