The Sonnet of the Suicide Bombers
Those star-mouthed virgins, crescent-moon-like holes
…………………
Lit up beneath their veils, are licking words
From Allah’s book to slime across our poles
The moment we are martyrs. Softest curds
From tight galactic goats are what their lips
Will feel like, whether lips of mouth or cunt,
As we ram our new-shaved balls and cock tips
Up into all of them, all . . . hardened, blunt. Against and far in
There’s nothing decadent in us, not us,
No limpness like that St. Sebastian
Whose cum would be more like a pointless pus.
Nails from bombs don’t make us lesser men
And fear can never give our pure prayers cramps.
(Why do the virgins smell of zyklon camps?)
