it’s not from your hands
that I expect my virginity
- it’s not you the one
I arrange my fangs for
(restoring the zodiac)

that wonderful age
when you kingly shoot at
the mayor house through a
pint ear – never wasting
the glance of your spear

you’ll never catch me
between panels

the scrambled things in your stare
can trigger my Fury
can kindle my Fear
but, alas, can’t panic my Wonder!

the peeled
Melancholy hangs dripping
…blood dripping

on its fur
the bony ape of my neck
is sprawling with horned capers

stop throwing martyrs
deep in themselves!

put them on fire
- if they don’t burn
simply behead them

then get out of the altar
carrying the Holy Gifts…

the round-windowed flower
is shivering on top of the python:
coiled among onion sheets
a pistachio-snake

the same Fury
looks like a Fear in the mirror
- with the wonder-skin wrinkled
at nape

The Buttoned-Virgin starts
coagulating on glass