There lies in me the starving part,
the stilted, beating, laboured heart,
the Rubens Venus carved in stone
turned gossamer on brittle bone.

A practised, broad, malignant curse
pulled steady by black horse and hearse,
slipping slow and sweet in vein
to numb the counsel, nerve and pain.

The arrhythmic guilt of more and more
near madness, the unending roar
of almost, but not quite yet, still,
much more to push and pull, and spill.

Feed it full, the gnawing thing,
brought back again through strain and sting.
Purge it into less and less,
the gentle hum of emptiness.