last night i dreamt up a revolution wherein we all spoke russian and understood the love that is called by no name except bastard son of wilde, and yet i dreamt of a black wolf in the form of a woman, who thought me peasant, and she of black did dream in blood, she told me stories, whispered in my ear-- raevenn in a spyke. her friend, ever the crow, took my hand for rape and bride, pillage prayer-- i denied i ever loved a racoon, but there was one called erik who denied me and he lied, i cried, he tried, i died-- these words were true, and so were you, down by the ocean my depression your sensation we did fie and tryste macabre he feasted on my bones, i hate him so. he took three men who would have died with lies feasting like maggots on their tongues inside their mouths and their eyes were glass like their hearts like ice, their livers chicken yellow and amber, their spleens were stones like bated breath-- they brought down ruin to destroy my mind, they did. and they succeeded; 'i hate you all' i cried, i tried, i lied, i bide my time, my tongue, my witchy ways to screw them all. i have. i'll carve out in spoons their names. i'll beat them up in whips, drive them in chains. the caved in souls of vanity will find no hope, no faith in me. sisters of mercy, i binde to thee: these bastard sons of fucking bitches. i bow my brain, i bend, i beat a strong palmetto strike tatoo of drums beating like pulsing rhythms set to war in script and sin and bloody black ink of gothic stones. i write in tongues, i write in bleeding henna on my back, my bare neck open like for chopping block. i kill them all with pen, i write.