Ixaxaar

in the place where black stars hang
like rotten fruit in orbits of mold
her hair hangs dark like a funereal shroud

stifling heat and cold sweat
serve as offerings to the gods of lust
the faint screams echo in the onyx chambers

black wet stone set in abysmal space
saturn crushes all with gravity
as the life juices flow

only one blue star winks its obscene eye
as the celebrants expend their last rites
and the black hole opens wide