the love of the whole world

I watch your self-mutilation in wonder,
your goring,
your seamless internal plumage,
and holy wreckage,
spilling onto my bedroom floor,
abominably pure.
One thousand eager doorbells,
ringing and pleading,
anxious to deliver
all the severed hands you have
in your arsenal.
The gods had it right
when they loved us into the ground;
plucking out our endless eyes,
rolling everlasting stones with our arms,
turning us to delightful salt pillars abundant,
ripping our hearts out with tender fingers
and feral savagery.
It is what we always wanted.
Our love songs are cannibal menus,
our endearments are boiled chains,
which sear our wrists and spirits,
like lace-veiled branding irons,
my sordid volcanic mastery come to life.
We would scoff at anything less.