WRAPPED IN WINGS AND HORNS

Vomit the words: "he is come, he is come!" Hum the chant and sway with intent. You wear the diadem of significance and becoming. You are the angel of lust and mock-forgiving, it is your time and you are a virgin to his murmurs. Trail your hand along the table, let your foot slide along the floor, the cock crows and the lamb whispers, the doors are breaking open and he is near coming. Sanctify the moment with locked eyes and beating heart, with breaths of abandon and thoughts a-slumber. He is old, older than angels and elohim, older than stars and cosmos. He is the beginning, you are wrapped in his wings and horns. He is your master, vibrant and unforgiving, focused on pain and deliverance; you are his slave, lowered eyes, hands and feet in supplication: "do with me as you will"...and you know he will. To lose your will, to have it wrested from your breast by a winged and horned master, it is excitement unconfined, it is a shaking and a shuddering from head to foot. You piss yourself in fear and excitement, you raise your head, extend your throat and vomit the words: "he is come, he is come to me!"