The room is white as nightmare. In
its center, like a garish, beating heart,
I lie, white on red, bound, trussed,
offered.



Perhaps I am dreaming.



With a hiss of ash and sulfur
he lays down another card, hair burning brightly.
“Your move.” But he does not say that.



Flames lick the windows, but here, inside,
all is still, aesthetic as pornography,
and my skin is smooth as glass -
everything
slips off into
oblivion,
even his knife-incisive touch,
which, when the world is real,
penetrates so deep, inextricable.



dis (Pluton) sociate.



and the only thing I cannot understand
is where the light comes from -
it seeps from the walls, the ceilings, the sky.



Perhaps I am underwater.



There are profane rituals in this world
where cameras can turn anything to repetition.
This is one, and his cold hands bend my
boneless knees.



The bloodstains will not show.



The god of lies always wins his wagers,
and he tells tarot with playing cards,
as if the major arcana do not exist.

​

(on the table of reflecting glass, it is easy to cheat.)