unedited draft from "The Mahavidya Suite", part XIX, "The Despair of Matangi"

Aloof upon the corpse-throne, Matangi, outcaste empress of the botched sits weakly, a crooked spine bent with the pliers of desperation; yesteryear a smallest girl, today blossoming the fruit of femalehood; surely, the firm bossom of Matangi have seduced much; her hourglass body runs with the sand of blissful expectancies --- but the time is soon out; she is the most beautiful --- yet, with her youthfulness; her face alight with the torches of all divine brisk; yet, the lusciousness of naked children and the firm breasts of a goddess can not help her any longer; her red jewelry gleams --- but in a dead sun, which shines dead rays! Even with being the quantum of all beauties, she can not bargain far, for Matangi, the beautiful; the fresh-scented; the virgin madonna, surely is a goddess of the outcastes!

I put my leftovers out

on my porch

to the night

for Matangi,

the sacred scavenger of human miseries

whom sneaks by like a shadow

or a wolfess strutting in the outskirts of the town...
 

     high off of the fumes of the poisonous lotus, 
                  she smiles...