February 1936

The Convent of the Guns

Volume 19, Issue 2


Doerer, Tom


Our clean curved mouths arc cold and dead.

Our polished skin is marred.

Our tawny thighs are thick with dirt.

Dented, cut and scarred.

Our day is done.

But once!

Our open mouths blazed Death's caress

Our tongues with steel were tipped!

Ah! Bitter spinsters were we then

As we slashed and cut and ripped!

Our youth was filled with lovers

All laughing joyous boys

Who stroked our slim, proud beauty

Their latest, deadly toys-

Then clean and fresh and polished

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