The Dead of Night

I think I am tired of being raped.

It’s the legacy of the blackbird’s crow,

in the back room where pornography’s taped-

succulent gifts of suffering endow.

So, the blackbird sings in the dead of night

and I am meant to fear the midnight hour?

While the stenographer records in light,

the hollow screams of a de-petalled flower.

Why must my rage only be justified

once i’m scarred by the actions of the vile?

When my throat’s been torn and bled and dried,

perhaps I’ll vomit rubies soaked in bile.

Then, and only then, I’ll be made to sing

what these birds of feather are promising.