she has red nails

she drags them like scythes across my back
in the gales of our human storm

we hurry songs of the present, when the future is bleak
I don't speak. my body invokes its own foreign language
she translates, and discovers a fiery star in obsidian carnage

with her red red mouth, she preaches that pain is pleasure
and the bites she bestows upon my shoulders are the blessings
of lecherous gods, who fashion bliss from rose-thorns
and prescribe sexual abandon as the cure for mediocrity

as I lick the aqueous substance from her skin
I imagine Christ engaging his magic
rearranging molecules, changing her sweat droplets
into redeeming wine

should the Archangel entreat us now
we would gladly soar with him on our own wings
to the halls of Valhalla

and if I die in this dream
they can seal my coffin
with red nails