by Nick Gisburne
The bride is dressed in black, from claws to veil.
The groom, of course, is naked, and in chains.
Their celebrant, in scarlet, twists his tail,
And steps across the usher’s cold remains.
“If anyone has cause to raise a doubt
About the victim, or his bride-to-be,
Say nothing. I will rip your liver out
If I am not in Tartarus by three.”
He turns to face the maid of honour. “You!”
Her neck is bared abruptly, with a jerk.
“I need a pint of blood, or maybe two.
Damnation can be very thirsty work.”
He sucks, and soon the marriage may begin,
Two fiends, exchanging semen, sweat, and skin.
