Empress

I suppose that's how they punish you, 
Empresses; 
they put a fresh oyster on a dish 
and let you choke on it's milky pearl. 
"My Lord and Master has wretched on his last breakfast, 
recover my jewel", 
(She tells her smiling eunuch.)

A hint of coldness plays about her lips 
as she licks a lightly salted regret 
reflecting on multiple opportunites for vengeance gone begging, 
in a gag pool of pus and blood and orchid vomit. 

And lo the emperor melts away, 
like a force of magnetism. 
He was weak as a puddle made to piss in, 
impotent as a tastebud 
which has burst it's bank with salt.


Moscow April 2015