O’ Casagemas,
what is this Heartbreak I hear,
from this woman with sagged, fired breasts
and onion hips that tell a strumpet?

This cruel, shameless voyeur
with little mind — who owns a
vainglorious torso;
a Lady Serpent, viperous!

O’ Casagemas,
this Heartbreak hurts,
running streams of cold blood at cockcrow.
We cannot be counted among men
but among lizards with tail monuments.

Veronica, Juliet, Ada or Ulu?
How does one even spell her name, with votive
words, or with streaks of bleeding ink?
Heartbreak spills from a hollow platter, gushing
cascades of heated tears.
Caustic! A ruinous fountain.

Dream.
Casagemas sprouts, a monocotyledon
on which she feasts — succubus!

Incubus at noon.

Night.
Painted on the frame of a subtopia,
this naked virago — pulse of falsetto —
weeps at the feet of the grave of Casagemas.

Morning.
Velvet roses and tailored satin, pink and white fluff
for Casagema’s Rebirth
and christening ceremony.
In attendance:
fair daughters of Eve, naked, baby-fresh and
Casagemanous, to wreak vengeance on this
hag with a fluke in her liver.