Compelling subversion of some traditional love poem tropes here. Typically I would expect such a poem to satirize the genre (especially given the anti-imagery of those opening two lines) but instead we get some kind of paradoxical indulgence of excesses that feels like making intimate love against the backdrop of a Hieronymus Bosch hellscape. I look forward to being haunted by this scene.

My name anagrams to “a man becomes.” I love movies and Kurt Vonnegut. I don’t understand how anagrams work.