Demon Slave
“Your demon slave”
—Ted Hughes
“Totem,” Birthday Letters
Warding off Ted’s evil spirit—
Painting little pricks everywhere
I’ve got no other logo—
Penises my sacred push-buttons
I hide them under tables—
Under chairs, under carpets
Sometimes beneath the stairs—
Ten-inch dead ones dying there
It may sound awfully crazy—
But the Druids made me do it
Behind the big mirror frame—
They finger Yggdrasil jive
Yew trees weeping slowly—
I hide them underneath the phone
Blood-splurges here and there—
Along with Ted’s sperm-stains
Anglo-Saxon hoodoo-voodoo—
My black magic talismans talk
Constantine had his cross—
I have my own crosses to bear
Genital Genies, Devil Angels—
My Demon Slaves, the Dead Others
Infernal runaway Yorkshire man—
All my neighbors feel sorry for me
A poor abject abandoned wife—
How could Ted Hughes be so cruel?
Running off with another man’s wife—
Leaving me hopelessly alone, dejected?
I play the violin strings rather nicely—
I wear my window’s black veil in mourning
Years got by and still no errant husband—
Perhaps Ted and Assia are happy somewhere?
Perhaps they’re living in Rio or Paris—
Maybe they’ve flown off to the Moon?
Nobody suspects the awful truth though—
Both of them rotting over in the graveyard
In a shallow grave where I buried them—
Underneath a looming ancient Yew tree
All that’s left is Johnny Panic’s prick—
Pickled in a jar there inside my frig
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