by Nick Gisburne
These are my treasures, my favourite things,
Each in a bubble of delicate glass.
Silent, the skeletal infant, who sings.
Angels, impaled on an altar of brass.
Ghost of a succubus, torn into two.
Martyrs determined to flay their own flesh.
Delicate fairy folk, drowning in dew.
Lechers, enslaved while their fever was fresh.
Naked, a princess, her poisons pulled out.
Only the brain of a beautiful boy.
Arrogant prodigies, pleased as they pout.
Crying mechanicals, empty of joy.
Each is a rare and remarkable prize,
Killed to rekindle my deviant eyes.
